by Jack Kline
Its ring startled the shit out of me. It was Dominic.
Dominic told me he had a call from his connection in the KCPD. The source reported that the department had identified one of the two charred bodies found following the warehouse fire. The corpse was Bennie Bengough, an independent contractor from Detroit who had performed jobs for the mob there. In Detroit, he specialized in burglary, second story stuff. But he also dabbled in strong-arm work and the occasional hit. Dominic’s informant told him that lately Bengough had taken a shine to arson for fun and profit.
“Why KC?” I asked Dominic.
“My guy had no more knowledge on the subject. Except, my guy said, the police had no evidence that he’d ever worked here or had even been here before.”
The line was silent. “Dom?”
“Yeah? I’m here. Just thinking. Suppose that’s why your Detroit dick is in town?”
“Could be,” I said.
I suggested Dominic poke around some. Might be a story in it. And I asked him to rattle my cage if he learned anything more. Once Dominic hung up, I threw down the rest of my drink and ground out my long-ashed cigarette.
I pushed my chair back from the desk and swiveled back and forth, dragging my foot. Interesting news. A Detroit bad-guy in town burning down mob warehouses. Was that why Harman and Patterson were working a joint investigation? What were they investigating? Or maybe Harman was crooked as a coat-hanger and our firebug, Bennie, came at his behest. Maybe Bennie was doing a job for Harman.
“Okay, Phil, put on your thinking cap,” I said aloud. If Harman was here investigating some kind of mob war that involved the Detroit mob and the KC Italian mob, then Lazzeri and his minions must finish squashing Mike Leary’s Irish or fight on two fronts. But what if Bengough was here working for a crooked Harman? What would that mean?
If Harman was dirty, then so was Patterson. Or else Patterson was incredibly dense and gullible, which rested well within the range of possibility. Let’s say Harman’s dirty. Why, and for whom does he work? I came up with two possibilities: most likely, Harman had nestled himself into the pocket of the Detroit mob. They wanted the Black Hand weakened or destroyed. And this might be only the beginning of a regional struggle for supremacy.
Or maybe Bengough and/or Harman worked independently of the Detroiters. They might have been working strictly for someone here. The beleaguered Irish mob leaped out as the obvious answer. That would most likely mean that Patterson had jumped into local Irish pockets.
Where did that leave Beverly Cresto? It seemed evident that she was in bed with Harman and whatever shenanigans he was up to. I smiled at the thought and wished Rusty sat across from me so I could drop my clever double-entendre on him. Alas, the only one there left to appreciate my steel-trap humor was the humorist himself. So Cresto knows something important, maybe about Tommy Holloway. The two detectives don’t want that information getting out and kept her under their protection. What did she know about Tommy?
Maybe Tommy discovered the game Harman and the firebug were up to. And Cresto was a part of that game—a black widow—and told Harman the kid was about to spill the beans to Palmisano. Then Tommy would need silencing. Either until the game had been played, or permanently.
I picked up the phone. “Rusty? It’s Phil. Just got some interesting news.”
“Not as interesting as mine. I was just about to call you.”
“Okay, spill.”
“Just got a call from Albert Garvey. The kid’s Stutz is back.”
“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Wait, what’s your news?”
“It’ll wait,” I said and I hung up the phone.
I pulled up in front of Garvey & Son twelve minutes later. The fall breeze blew strong and warm and the wet that a guy feels clinging to him without actually becoming damp. Clumpy gray clouds flew by headed for St. Louis. The day had turned the kind of blustery that signals storms brewing. Rusty arrived a few minutes later. This time I made sure I leaned against my Plymouth with my watch open.
He circled around his car, glanced at my theatrics and said, “You were early.”
Both Garveys, Albert and his father, Ned, had their heads under the hood of a Ford flatbed as we entered. Without looking, Albert held his arm out and said, “Be right with you fellas.” I could see the Stutz sparkling in the last space by the back garage door. I nodded toward the Stutz and Rusty accompanied me to the back of the garage.
We examined the exterior and peeked inside—nothing hinky, no weapons, blood, nothing.
“Help you, fellas?” Next to the flatbed, Albert rubbed his greasy hands on a rag, and then on his coveralls. “Oh, hello, didn’t know it was you.” He handed the rag to his father who began his own rubbing. “Dad, these are the detectives I told you about.
“We don’t want no trouble,” Ned Garvey said.
I walked toward them, my arms at my sides, palms open toward them. “That’s okay, Mr. Garvey. We’re not looking to make any. We’re not exactly detectives. My associate and I are private investigators looking to help a family find their missing son.”
“These are the guys I told you about, Dad. They’re only trying to help Mr. Holloway find his son.” Albert set himself between me and his old man. “Dad, this is Mr. Morris and—I forget your name.”
“It’s Rusty Callahan, sir; pleased to meet you.” Rusty offered his hand.
Ned Garvey looked at us like we carried Bubonic. He left Rusty’s hand hanging. “I told the boy here,” nodding his head at Albert, “when that kid first brought the car around. I told him don’t you take that boy’s car. He’s bad news and it’ll come to trouble sure enough.”
“Well, sir, we’re not trouble, I assure you. Just looking for a missing kid.” If I had worn a hat, I would have taken it off and held it with both hands at my waist, as a sign of supplication. As it was, I clasped my hands there as if I was about to bend my head in prayer. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said, gentle as a whisper.
The father looked at the son; anger streaked from his eyes, pummeling Albert again and again. Albert adopted my pose, only he did bow his head.
“Goddamn it, son, I told you. I told you this was trouble. All you saw was money, easy money.” Garvey stomped his foot on the concrete and Albert’s head snapped up. “No such thing, boy, no such thing.”
Rusty and I exchanged glances.
Properly chagrined, Albert spoke with a voice as pale and thin as skim milk, “Ask your questions, Mr. Morris.”
“Were you here when the car was returned?”
“Yes, we both were,” Albert said, his father next to him, a smoking volcano ready to erupt.
“Did Tom Junior drop it off?”
The volcano erupted. “No, goddamn it, a couple of hoodlums did! Some fat-ass Palooka sat in the alley and honked his horn like we ran some kind of valet parking service.”
The old man was just getting started. “I told my boy, ‘Don’t you dare open that door. Let him do it for himself.’” Ned stared at the boy, his supply of armaments spent. But Albert had shrunk two inches. “The prick kept honking, and then my yellow-striped skunk of a son opened the door.”
“You said ‘a couple of hoodlums.’ Were there two in the car?” Rusty asked.
“No, the pudgy one drove the kid’s car in, and some other red-hot pulled up and parked a Packard in the alley.”
“You get a look at the guy in the alley?” I asked.
“Sure!” the old man’s arms flew around his head like unknotted balloons. “The two of them stood side-by-side, suits bulging with guns. Told us to keep our traps shut.”
Before I could ask another question, the old man went on. “Then my brainless boy here asks them where is Tommy Holloway? I thought they were going to shoot us both right there.” The father Garvey smacked the son with his shop rag twice before the son ducked and covered.
“What’d they say to that?” I asked.
“The short guy with
the mashed-in nose reaches into his coat. I was waiting for the gun and the bullets, but he slides out a wallet and then slips two sawbucks to my feather-brained son. He says, ‘the Holloway kid won’t be needing the car for a while,’ and they both laugh.”
The older Garvey pointed at the Stutz. “So you fellas take the damned car. Get it out of here. I want to be done with it.”
“Dad …”
“Shut up! Not a word, boy.” Albert looked lost, like he wanted to climb into the flatbed’s engine compartment. He kept his eyes down, examining his work boots.
I broke the tension. “Mr. Garvey, can you describe them?”
“Sure. The guy in the kid’s car was about six feet. He was soft and overweight and looked like his body had been filled to the neck with mashed potatoes. Had his hat tilted back and it looked like he could have been bald on top. And his lips. They were pink, so pink it looked like he might be wearing lipstick.”
“The shorter one?”
“Guy was really short, at least eight inches shorter than the other goon. Kept his hat pulled way down low and cocked it to the side. He was one ugly son of a bitch with cold, gray eyes. Looked like he’d enjoy killing us.”
“Any accents?”
“None that I could tell. Al?”
“Huh?”
“Man asked a question,” the father said.
“You told me to shut up.”
“Goddamn it, boy. Grow a backbone. Answer the man.”
“Didn’t sound like they was from around here,” Al whispered. “Up north, maybe.”
I looked at Rusty. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” he said.
“Mr. Garvey, Albert, thank you for your help.” I handed Ned Garvey a ten-spot. “Mr. Holloway will be very grateful when he hears of your cooperation. I’m sorry that we can’t take the car right now, but mind if we have a look around inside?”
Still looking at the Hamilton in his hand, he waved the other in a “go ahead” arc. We gave the Stutz the once-over and found almost nothing. Rusty lifted a box of matches from the floor on the driver’s side. The box’s cover showed an artist’s rendering of the Valencia Hotel, a once proud, now somewhat seedy hotel in the river bottoms a few blocks north of the stockyards. Back in wilder cow town days, the Valencia was the place for cattle barons to stay. The money and that type of clientele migrated to the top of Quality Hill long ago.
We thanked the Garveys again and asked them to call if anyone came for the car. Ned Garvey had become strangely docile with the ten-dollar pacifier in his hand. Outside Rusty and I stopped in front of my car.
“Interesting, huh?” I said.
Rusty popped a cigarette between his lips and lit it. “Yeah, sounds like your shovel-faced shadow.”
“Yep.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Rusty asked.
“Maybe. I’m thinking Flat Face has done something with the kid. I’m thinking somebody’s paying him to do it. I’m thinking we’re not looking for the kid anymore. We’re looking for his body.”
“And his killers,” Rusty said.
“And the brains behind them. That was part of the original deal. Old man Holloway said that if I discover that the boy has been demised, then he also wanted me to identify the demisors.”
“What now?”
“Let’s run over to the Valencia in my car. We’ll have a chat with the front desk.”
The Valencia still held on to the pretense that they were a fine hotel. They still employed a doorman decked out in a slightly dowdy red and black pseudo-military uniform, complete with faded gold epaulets. The man slumped against the entryway with a bored look until he saw we were stopping. Before Rusty reached for his door handle, the man grabbed the outside and pulled it open.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Will you require a valet to park your vehicle?”
“No thanks; we aren’t staying,” Rusty said.
The guy looked genuinely crestfallen. Nonetheless, he hustled back and held the entrance door for us. I nodded my thanks, he returned the nod rather gravely.
Approaching the front desk we saw only the top of a head bearing slicked down dark hair, parted in the middle. Our heels clicking on the dingy marble brought the hair’s owner into full view. Its owner had been seated on a stool flipping through a Saturday Evening Post, which he hurriedly stowed underneath the counter, and donned his front desk clerk’s smile.
“May I help you, gentlemen? Two rooms perhaps?”
Rusty gave him the news that we wouldn’t want rooms, while I produced the photo of Tom Holloway Jr.
He only looked at it for a moment, then handed it back. “Sure, I’ve seen this guy. He visits a lady staying here.”
“Lady?” Rusty and I chorused.
“Yeah, a classy blonde. Been here a couple of weeks.”
Rusty and I looked at each other. “She got a name?” Rusty said.
The man looked sorrowful. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed to share that information about our guests.”
“Are you allowed to give physical descriptions?” I said sliding a dollar bill across the counter.
His eyes rested on the lonely bill and then his hand covered it. “Young, long blond hair, very attractive, nice accoutrements.” He said the fancy word with the even fancier French pronunciation.
Rusty leaned forward, his elbows on the counter. He slapped another dollar down but kept his hand over it. “They let you change facial expressions here?” The clerk offered a quizzical look. “Might her name be Beverly Cresto?”
The clerk’s eyebrows shot up and he sucked in a large breath. Rusty stood back up straight and left the bill. It wasn’t there long.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I said. “The young man in the photo is Tom Holloway’s son.” Another look of surprise.
“And he’s gone missing.”
The clerk turned solemn. “You cops?”
“Private investigators working for Mr. Holloway.”
“How can I help?”
“Just a few more questions. Would you say that the young man in the photo was romantically involved with your guest?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, sir.”
“Call me Phil, Phil Morris.”
“How do you do? Gavin Kinder at your service.” He offered his hand and I shook it. Gavin had a nice firm grip.
“No? They weren’t involved?” Rusty asked.
“No. Miss Cres … our guest has a boyfriend, also staying here.”
Rusty grinned. “But you can’t give us his name either.”
Gavin also smiled and said nothing.
“Name wouldn’t be Harman would it?” I asked.
Gavin nodded vigorously. “I’m sorry I’m not at liberty to say.” He chuckled at his own clever response.
“Can you tell us if either of them are in their rooms right now?”
“You would have to be more specific before I could answer such a question.”
Rusty nodded instantly, a bit quicker on the uptake than me. “Gavin,” Rusty said, “are either Mr. Harman or Miss Cresto up in their rooms right now?”
Gavin grinned like the young girl in the Pepsodent ads—all teeth—then turned around and looked at the clock behind him, which showed ten-till-five. “I’ve only been here since four, and I haven’t seen either of them. Coming or going.”
I pulled a wad of bills from my pocket and slid off the clip. “I don’t suppose you could reveal what rooms they’re staying in.”
“Save your money,” he said. “I’d be fired on the spot if I did that.”
“If you got caught doing that,” Rusty said for clarification.
Gavin shook his head. “No way would I risk it, gentlemen. I can’t tell you if one of them stays in 623 and the other in 612, or in any of our other currently occupied rooms.”
We all grinned at that. Rusty continued. “And even if we knew which two rooms they occupied, you couldn’t reveal which room was Miss Cresto’s.”
“That
is correct. But I could offer a casual observation.”
“Offer away,” I said.
Gavin placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “Isn’t it funny how many of our more self-important male customers always demand a corner room.”
We took the stairs, and, with every step, I was reminded of the beating I took. At the landing for the fourth floor, we stopped and lit smokes.
I took a long drag of the Lucky, my sore ribs exclaiming their protest. “Sore?”
“Maybe,” Rusty said. “You?”
I chuckled. “Maybe. You got your lock-picking hardware?”
“Does Goldilocks like porridge?”
I thought about that for a moment, running the childhood story through my head. “Yeah, but she’s pretty finicky about how it’s served.” We headed up the last two flights.
The hotel was L-shaped and the sixth-floor door opened at one end. That part of the hallway was empty. The two corner rooms were 601 and 602. The numbers got larger as we approached the bend in the L. The door for 610 had glasses and dishes on the floor next to it. We turned the corner.
Room 612 stood immediately to my left. At the far end of the hall, a man sat on a chair facing us. He had been reading the Star. He folded the paper and dropped it next to him. “Help you fellas?”
I stopped, Rusty beside me. “Just looking for a room,” I said.
“Your friends ain’t staying in this wing of the hotel.”
“And you would know—?
He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Security. Private security. This wing’s private and the folks staying here aren’t entertaining guests. Okay, fellas?”
Rusty’s body language told me that it wasn’t okay and that we were moments away from conflagration. “Sorry,” I said. “We must have the wrong floor.” I touched Rusty’s shoulder and turned to go. A second or two later, he followed.
On the stairs, I told him that it wasn’t the time for a dust-up. We might stake the place out on Sunday and try to catch her coming or going, hopefully without Detective Harman. Rusty admitted that his itch for payback had him nursing a hairpin trigger.