by Jack Kline
This was more, something that a guy only gets a few times in his life. A feeling that this is the one, the one perfect fit, the one that will fulfill him. The feeling takes over and it goes contrary to logic and reason. It becomes an unthwartable urge to reach into the candy jar when you know the rules, know you will be punished. There was still time to escape her web, and I vowed that I would.
I had updated my expenses, including Rusty’s time and still the phone remained silent. I lifted the receiver and tapped for a dial tone—nothing wrong with the line. I pictured Holloway lollygagging in his office making sure he left me dangling over here to reinforce his aura of power and importance. It tickled me that I had come up with that image, always the suspicious one. He was probably just busy.
I returned to my circles and arrows sheet, focusing again on Flat Face and where he belonged. Below him, each accompanied by a question mark, I wrote “Black Hand and the Irish mob.” Almost as an afterthought, I added “Detective Patterson/Beverly Cresto.” The phone rang.
It was Holloway’s secretary checking to make sure I was in, and she immediately got him on the line. The conversation was surprisingly brief. I glossed over what I had done to that point and who I had been investigating, namely the cops, and the two mobs. I didn’t mention Colleen or Tommy’s Stutz or the dust-up with Patterson and Harman. I told him that based on the warehouse fire I would be looking into the possibility of a mob war and how Tommy might have been some kind of leverage in that war.
He was perfunctory and offered only “uh huhs” and “yeahs” in lieu of intelligent questions. He asked if I kept track of expenses and I told him yes, and that I had brought in another investigator. Holloway indicated that he would cover the wages of the investigator, but anything over and above that would have to come out of my fee. The conversation wound down and finally I asked, “Mr. Holloway, do you know Beverly Cresto?”
“Who?”
“Beverly Cresto.”
“No, I don’t believe so. How do you spell it?” I spelled it for him.
“No, I’m sure I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“Your son was seen with her in a nightclub the night he disappeared. What’s funny, Mr. Holloway, is that we can’t find any record of her existence. And what’s funnier, a Kansas City police detective claims to be keeping her under wraps, or so he says, for her own protection.”
Silence on the other line made me think for a moment that we had been disconnected. “That is strange. Do you want me to see what I find out through the chief of police?”
“I may, sir. But not yet. I have a meeting with this detective’s boss later today.” I hoped I could arrange one, anyway. “If that doesn’t get me any closer, I may ask for your help, sir.” That’s the way we left it. Not once did he express worry over the fate of his son, or impress upon me the urgency of my search.
I dialed police headquarters and asked for Detective Chief Myers. They said he would be in his office that afternoon. The lady I spoke to said that she could not set up appointments for the Chief, and I would have to call back afternoon. My timepiece told me there was still twenty-five minutes before I was scheduled to call Rusty. I leaned back in my chair, pushed away from the desk and spun around 360 degrees, dragging my foot to stop. I repeated the spin. And again once more.
Spinning like that used to drive Sammy nuts. He’d sit at attention for a lap or two, or three, whining, maybe throw a paw-punch at me as I spun by. Eventually, he would lose his patience and walk forward into the brunt of the spin. Sometimes he’d get smacked by swinging legs, sometimes he had better timing. Once he’d get me stopped, Sammy would scale my legs and get the front half on his body up in my lap, his forlorn eyes gazed up at me, forgiving me for playing such a cruel trick. God, I loved that dog.
They say people are particularly vulnerable after a relationship ends badly. Often a guy will get serious with the first skirt that doesn’t run away screaming. And he regrets it. They say we need to take time to accept the hole in our lives. And until we recognize the hole and properly adjust our lives to it, we shouldn’t jump into another relationship. That’s how guys—and dames too—end up marrying three or four times.
I began to spin again. I wondered if Miss Holloway was merely something to latch onto to fill the hole. And the wondering itself pried me away from the pain of loss and placed me gently into thoughts of that bright, gorgeous, dangerous girl. Even knowing what I knew, I couldn’t shake her. Even when I wondered what Sammy would think of me sniffing after some skirt only days after he had died. Sammy would understand.
That’s when the tears started.
There weren’t many and there was no blubbering or even sobs. I quickly got myself squared away.
The pocket watch read nearly eleven. I dialed Rusty’s office and he answered on the first ring. I filled him in on my chat with Holloway, nothing new really. And I told Rusty that Holloway offered to rattle some cop cages from the chief of police on down, if needed.
I asked Rusty to meet me at police headquarters around one, and we’d drop in on Myers unannounced.
I grabbed a bite of lunch at an Italian place down by the river. When I finished and stepped outside, a strong, warm southerly wind accosted me. The air was full of moisture and breathing it felt like when a guy stands in a steamy-hot shower. I took the Plymouth south, up over Quality Hill to police headquarters and parked on the street. Something about parking in the police lot left me feeling claustrophobic. I was a few minutes early.
Rusty was as punctual as a fine Swiss clock, punctual not just in the sense of never being late. Rusty was never early or late. If he seemed to be, then the problem was more likely with your timepiece. He arrived precisely and gave me a toot with his horn as he pulled into the lot. He waited in his car while I hoofed it over. The wind howled, blowing paper and elm leaves—a good day for us lumpy-headed guys to go hatless.
Inside the headquarters’ vestibule, I had to wrestle the outer door to get it closed. Ever the helpful one, Rusty stood by, amused. We asked for Chief Myers at the front desk. The officer asked if he expected us. “Sort of,” I said with an innocent smile. He directed us to the seats that lined the east wall. We took a pair of them and, simultaneously produced cigarettes. Rusty was a Pall Mall guy. I was grinding out my butt in the adjacent pedestal ashtray when the officer returned.
“Be a few minutes, boys.”
“Thanks, officer,” I said.
Did I say before that Rusty twiddles his thumbs? He does and he twiddled them while we waited. I lit a second Lucky, walked over to the bulletin board and took a gander at the wanted posters. I hoped that maybe I would find my pancake-faced friend there. No such luck. Before I finished the second Lucky another officer showed and instructed us to follow him. We wound through the maze of hallways and desks to Myers office.
Myers stood and seemed uncommonly cordial. He and Rusty had never met and I made the introductions, introducing Rusty as another investigator who was helping out on the case. Myers actually said that it was a pleasure to meet him. Would wonders never cease?
We took the two nearby chairs and Myers asked us to slide them up to his desk. Once we were all comfy-cozy, Myers began.
“Look, boys, I know that you’re looking for the Holloway son. And I understand that you may not be at liberty to discuss the particulars.” He paused, raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly. I nodded back in the affirmative.
“Here’s the deal, boys. The police department is just as anxious as you are to get the kid restored to his family. We can help each other here.”
Rusty and I exchanged glances, and Rusty spoke. “Chief, Phil and I have some reservations, as I’m sure you can understand. When two fellas get beat up by cops for no reason, it makes them a little gun-shy.”
“Now, if you had spoken to your detective, and wanted to make amends that might change things,” I added.
Myers rubbed his nose and leaned forward. “As a matter of fact, I have spoken to Detective Patterson,”
he said in a voice altered by sinus blockage. “His version differs quite a bit from yours, Mr. Morris.”
Rusty laughed. Not exactly a laugh, but a single, boisterous “Ha!”
I nudged him and held out an open-palmed hand, signaling him to nix the theatrics.
“What did your detective tell you?” My voice twisted the three syllables of detective into decorative knots.
He sat back in his chair. “Detective Patterson said that you two had been interfering with their joint investigation. And when the Detroit detective in charge told you to desist, your friend here,” he paused, pointing to Rusty, “your friend, wielding a blackjack, jumped detective Patterson.”
My turn for a “Ha!”
Rusty sat chiseled in stone, and I regained my own composure.
“And then I suppose he told you that I jumped the Detroit cop holding a gun on us, and the two uniforms with nightsticks in their hands?”
“I admit there are discrepancies. And I’m not sure my detective was fully truthful.”
“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t,” Rusty said. “If I’d jumped him, blackjack or not, you’d have to listen to Patterson’s version in his hospital room.”
“Who’s telling the truth here doesn’t really matter,” I said. “What does matter is that the Cresto girl was with Tommy Holloway the night he disappeared. We need to speak to her. Your detective resulted to physical violence to prevent it. Is there anything that you can do to assist us?”
Myers sat wordlessly, breathing through his mouth. He sniffed loudly to pull drainage back up into his cavernous nasal cavities. I wanted him to blow his nose, to flush out that drainage. At the same time, I dreaded being a nearby observer of such an act. Next to me, Rusty cleaned his fingernails with his fingernails.
“What do you want out of this, Chief?” I said. “What do you want from us?”
He pulled out a folded handkerchief and began to open it. I couldn’t watch. I checked my own nails as Myers sought relief with two prolonged duck calls. Rusty and I exchanged a glance, both stifling grins. Myers examined the proceeds of his effort and then refolded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.
“Here’s what I want: I want to keep Tom Holloway off the warpath. I want his boy found and safely back with his family. And I want Tom Holloway to know that this police department, rather than doing the boy harm, aided in his recovery.” His voice sounded somewhat less nasal. “So I’ll help you any way I can as long as you make sure Tom Holloway knows of our assistance.”
Silence lingered in the air. I figured what Myers had said was all good news, and I was about to see if he meant it when Myers continued. “This department can help you, Mr. Morris. The more information you give us, the more we can help.”
Our eye contact convinced me that it was my turn. “Great, Chief. I promise that Mr. Holloway will know exactly what role your department has had in our investigation. For better or for worse, whether we find him alive or dead or don’t find him at all, we’ll pass on who helped and who hindered.” Rusty solemnly nodded his head. “There is a problem with sharing information on our part, though.”
Myers’ cheeks reddened, his already crimson proboscis brightened. “Go on,” he said.
I did. “Mr. Holloway made me commit to confidentiality on all aspects of the case.” I watched his face. He didn’t react. “Of particular concern to the parents was that the boy might be involved in illegal activities. They didn’t want their son to be found and, instead of returning home, exchange his current situation for a stay in the Jackson County Jail.” Myers’ head nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I fear that I’ve already said more than I should have, revealing the nature of our search for Beverly Cresto.” My lungs itched for a smoke, and my fingers died for something to do. “Do you mind if I smoke?” His hand waved dismissively.
I pulled my case out and offered him one—another dismissive gesture. Rusty accepted the offer. My match lit his and then mine. I breathed in a lung full and exhaled. Ah, the magic of nicotine. “Can you get us an interview with Miss Cresto?”
He sighed. “I’m working on it, but there are problems.”
I waited for him to go on, but he seemed content. “Go on,” I prompted.
His expression implied that whatever response he gave would be given at the expense of great gastric pain. The expression was as phony as a carnival barker’s come-on. “Miss Cresto is an important part of a joint investigation of organized crime. She is in great peril.”
“I see. What can you tell me about the investigation? And how would our speaking with her jeopardize it?” I already knew the answer. He was about to clam-up.
“As to the former, I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“And the latter? Our questions shouldn’t affect their investigation or reveal anything they want to remain in confidence. We’ve already agreed to allow your detectives to be present.”
His expression changed. It appeared that he wore a smile. “How do I word this?” Myers looked to the ceiling for an answer. “It seems the lead investigator, a detective from Detroit, has taken a fancy to the girl.”
“Fancy?” Rusty said.
“Yes, a romantic fancy. He has become both her guardian and her lover.”
“You talking about Harman?” I said.
The smile turned quizzical. “Yes, Detective Harman.”
The picture I had in my noggin of Harman was not a favorable one. Not just his chubby facial features and the greasy black hair parted down the middle, but his arrogance—and there was his wing-tipped shoe swinging toward my head. Add to that picture an attractive, young local girl in bed with him made the image even more distasteful.
“And as lead investigator, he believes that it’s not in the best interest of his case or the girl’s well-being to allow you to speak to her. But I’m working on him. He and his investigation team will meet for an update later this afternoon.” Myers folded his hands on his desk as if he was about pray. “I plan to emphasize to him that he may be present during the interview and that he may terminate it if at any time the interview jeopardizes his work.
“Or his twist’s put-out,” Rusty said.
Myers darkened. Before he could speak, I interjected “You must understand, Chief, from our vantage point there should be no reason why we cannot ask questions that she doesn’t have to answer. My pal here wonders if the Detroit detective might be thinking with his groin.”
“You may be right,” Myers said, to our incredulity. “Let me work on him this afternoon and I’ll call you.”
Rusty wrote his home phone number on his business card and handed it to Myers, and I did the same. Myers looked at the cards and opened his middle desk drawer.
“But call him first,” Rusty said pointing to me. “He’s the one making the big dough here.”
We started to rise and the chief held up his hand. “One more thing, boys, have you considered that the kid might have gotten sucked into the mob war?”
Of course we had, but I didn’t let on. I wanted to see where he’d go with it.
“Mob war?”
“Yeah, it’s my understanding that Tom Jr. was pretty tight with the younger generation of Irish mobsters. Could be that he’s gotten himself involved, maybe killed or held for ransom.”
Myers thought a moment. “Say, there haven’t been any ransom demands have there?” He rubbed his nose with his right hand and checked to make sure it wasn’t wet. Apparently, it was, for it disappeared under his desk.
“No, there haven’t,” I said. “And this is the last time I’ll answer that question without direct authorization from Mr. Holloway to involve the police.”
“Fair enough. But remember, I want to help in any way you’ll let me.”
“I’ll remember that, sir. Get me that confab with Beverly Cresto.” I stood, and Rusty followed my lead. Reaching over the desk, I shook hands with Myers, hoping he’d already wiped it on something.
“I’ll try these phone
numbers on your cards after our three o’clock meeting,” Myers said as we walked away. Myers still stood there watching us as we reached the end of the hallway and rounded the corner.
“What’d you make of that?” I asked Rusty in the parking lot.
“Either that was someone disguised as Myers, or the Chief has found religion.”
“So he sounded square to you, too?”
“Yeah.” Rusty opened his car door. “But I don’t trust him.”
“I hear you, pal.”
Rusty and I agreed to meet at the Chesterfield around eight. He was off to chat with Nat Simpson, his jewelry caper surveillance spy. We said “so long” and I headed back to the office.
The match was in its place between the door and the frame. Even so, I opened it cautiously, ready for action. Dust motes swirled in sunlight streaks from the windows above 10th street, nothing more.
At my desk, I poured a glass of Jim Beam, lit a Lucky and relaxed. The headache had disappeared. I thought about Myers. He seemed on the level, and his reasons for wanting to help rang true. But that didn’t mean there weren’t members of the force that wished young Tom ill. I would take all the help I could get from Myers. But I’d keep my cards hidden.
Basie at the Chesterfield might give me a chance to talk to Palmisano, if he showed. I wondered what role the kid had in Palmisano’s organization. And I wondered if Palmisano gave the kid the fancy car. If so, why? If not, the kid must have done something pretty impressive to come up with the dough. If I was laying money down, I’d bet the Black Hand was involved in Tommy’s disappearance. I also figured, if Tommy had been harmed as a turncoat by the Irish mob, and the Black Hand knew of it, they would have already made that widely known.
Would Palmisano even talk to me? If he showed, I’d find out.
I figured Basie at the Chesterfield might draw other moths to the light. Beverly Cresto and her Detroit cop boyfriend. That would be interesting. Colleen Holloway might be there. What would I do if she were? Would I ask her to dance and take her home with me? Maybe she’d show up with a date. That would simplify things, and help keep my head in the game. Or would it? The phone rang.