by Jack Kline
I dropped him at his car in front of Garvey and Son. We agreed to meet at the Chesterfield Club and we’d poke around there. Maybe some more of Tommy’s pals would be there.
“Okay, I’ll be there around nine,” Rusty said, which meant he would arrive at precisely nine.
Ten minutes later I was home, but before I could get in the building, Mrs. Potter came running out of her ground-floor with her arms full. She wore her overcoat and a funny looking smile.
“I know that you’re very busy, Philip. But you must keep your strength up.”
She carried a bread pan in her right arm like a football player carries the ball. Her left arm kept her bulging overcoat closed. The sun had already dropped below the trees on Paseo Boulevard and the scent of impending rain lurked. She held out her right arm and the delicious odor of fresh-baked meatloaf slathered in tomato sauce joined the smell of rain.
“You’re too good to me, Mrs. Potter.”
She frowned, her hands folded underneath the bulge in her overcoat. “I’ve told you before, young man, it’s Lucille.”
I grinned. “You’re too good to me, Lucille.” I lifted the cloth and took a big whiff.
Her exasperation changed to something more maudlin. “Philip, you remind me so much of my boy Robbie.”
“Killed at Verdun, right? He must have been a really good kid.”
She sighed. “He was. And you’re a really good boy too, but whether you know it or not, a lonely one. I wish you would find a good girl and marry her.
“You need someone, Philip.” The maudlin look transitioned into a devilish one. “And that’s why I brought her to you.”
“Huh?”
She nimbly opened her coat and produced a German shepherd pup.
I almost dropped the meatloaf.
“I know, I know, you said you didn’t want another, at least not now. Her name is Sally and she’s seven weeks old, and I’ll keep her anytime you want.” Her words came out fast, as if they were rehearsed.
“And I’ll give you a key to my back entrance. If I’m not home and you need to leave Sally, there’s a big box with water and bedding. You can put her there. Anytime. I’m serious, Philip, anytime night or day.”
How do you say no to that? She held the pup out to me and I took it in my other arm, cradling her downy stomach. Her little legs dangled. She was fluffy and beautiful and she licked my face like it was smeared with meatloaf. There’s something indescribably sweet about puppy breath.
“Thanks, Lucille. I mean it.” And I did mean it. Sammy meant a lot to me and he was only two days dead. There will never be another Sammy. But there would be room inside for another dog someday, and this one licked my face with the enthusiasm of one who knew that day was today.
“Hello, little girl. How you doing?” She licked her reply.
I told Mrs. Potter … told Lucille, that I would be going out later this evening on business and might be out late. She insisted that I take Sally up and show her around, and then drop her off when I left. Lucille would keep Sally for the night.
I started for the door.
“Phil?”
I turned. “Yes?”
“Once you get Sally settled and we get her house trained, then we’ll find you a good girl to marry.”
And she meant it too. “One thing at a time, Lucille.”
The meatloaf was tasty. Sally and I both enjoyed it. She clawed at my leg for more than the few morsels provided. She didn’t seem too interested in Sammy’s dry dog food. Eventually, she would learn to lay patiently nearby and wait for any manna that heaven might provide. Once I had my fill we went outside to take care of business. A cold, light rain had begun, the kind that brings shivers without really getting you very wet, the kind that slinks under clothing and chills marrow.
Give me a loud, pretentious storm with buckets of rain running off the bill of your hat. A guy knows what he’s getting and can gird himself. Sally didn’t seem to mind, though. She scampered around the postage stamp lawn sniffing everything until she found just the right spot to squat. I gave her a few more minutes to explore then called her to the door.
I let her climb the stairs up to the second floor. She struggled mightily but pressed on with occasional glances back to make sure I wasn’t lagging behind. At the landing, I scooped her up and told her what a good girl she was. The rain had beaded on the tips of her fur. Down deep she was as dry as one of Rusty’s martinis.
In my bedroom, Sally explored while I stripped down and opened the closet. I grabbed some nightclub duds and tossed them on the bed, then sniffed my armpits and walked across the hall to the bath where my pits were tamed with Mum deodorant. I added a pinch of cologne under the jaw.
When I got back to the bedroom, Sally aggressively chewed on the toe of one of my old oxfords. She got her first scolding, earned and given. I dressed in my near-new black suit, went back to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror while Sally returned to the main room to explore. Not bad, some wrinkles around the eyes and the small scar that interrupted my left eyebrow—the product of a whiskey bottle whacking from a jilted lover case a decade ago. And then there were the lumps and bruises. My hair showed no gray yet, and it had begun to evolve from summer blond to winter’s dusty brown. I smiled—good teeth. Maybe I would get me a tuxedo after the case was over.
I tucked the pocket watch into my vest pocket—the watch my dad got for 25 years on the Emporia Police force—and made sure the chain hung just right. For a moment, I wondered why I was getting so gussied up, preening like a peacock. This was a business trip to a jazz club. But I already knew the answer.
Sally had been busy while I admired my mug, leaving a tiny pile of semi-solid poop in one corner and a puddle of urine in another, both a good distance from my mother’s old braided rug. I guess that’s the difference between males and females. When Sammy was a pup he selected the same centrally located bull’s eye on the rug’s braids. Sally suffered the ignominious act of having her nose pressed to her leavings, and her second scolding.
With the pup in one arm and my raincoat draped on the other, I headed out the door and around to Mrs. Potter’s. I hoped Lucille would begin Sally’s education while I was out, and I’d retrieve her tomorrow morning fully house trained. A guy can dream, can’t he?
I rolled up to the Chesterfield Club about eight-fifty. Someone had just pulled out of a spot right across the street, and I slipped in. The rain had lightened to drizzle, so I draped my trench coat over my shoulder and crossed Vine. The Jazz district’s copious neon was multiplied by its reflection in the wet pavement. Its bright colors shot me back to my boyhood when the Hale’s Show of Tomorrow carnival used to camp out on the Emporia fairgrounds every July. That night we had our own carnival of color glistening there on the Vine Street pavement.
I checked my hat and coat at the door. Inside, the crowd had shown up early for Count Basie. Rusty, uncharacteristically early, sat alone in the far corner with his back to the wall. His gaze moved around but he didn’t see me come in. I walked to the bar and ordered two Jim Beams on the rocks.
Rusty nodded my way as I approached. I slid over one of the Beams and sat next to him so I could see the whole place.
“What we got?” I asked.
“Two of the kids on your man Hannerty’s list are sitting over there.”
“Where?”
“Over there by the dance floor, there with the two chesty brunettes.”
“Talk to them yet?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Rusty raised his forefinger. He wanted me to hold off. So I did. He threw down his drink, then asked me if I had talked with Palmisano, and I gave him the quick run-down of my visit north of the river. Rusty nodded his head but didn’t say anything, not about Palmisano, not about the boys with the brunettes, nothing. Rusty was running some kind of game on me. He had that “I know something you don’t” smirk.
But I do know Rusty, and I knew he wanted me to question and probe; he wanted to play a game
of Yes and No. Wearing that grin, he gazed up at the chandelier. I wouldn’t bite, though; instead of asking if what he thought of was bigger than a breadbox, I played my own game of who blinks first. I looked up at the chandelier too, pretty swanky, enough fake jewels to cover a hundred women’s collarbones. And then I ignored him and allowed my eyes to wander.
The whole place belied the outside reality of a world in depression. Inside, the Chesterfield Club was a refuge for those who still had the dough to forget about life outside—the best food, and now legal high-class booze, the best jazz acts and opulent decor. Oak wainscoting set off by an intricately carved, contrasting mahogany chair rail lined the room. The walls above the rail were papered in burgundy velvet. Doric support columns looked straight out of a Grecian temple. The hardwood dance floor transitioned into a floor of polished white marble in the rest of the place. The marble made everyone sound as if they wore tap shoes. Tables were dressed out in white linen, the real deal. The place was just short of garish. And the male serving staff wore swanky tuxedos while the serving ladies traipsed around in either black or white silk flapper dresses, complete with high-dive, plunging necklines. Made a guy feel important just sitting there.
I gazed around at the people, starting with Tommy’s friends. They looked young and self-important, putting on show for their ladies. They weren’t among the kids we saw at Mickey’s Tavern. The place was nearly full an hour before Basie took the stage. I recognized a lot of the faces, Kansas City’s movers and shakers, some of the same faces that had graced the front rows of the Bryant-Shull fight.
Rusty had finished his examination of the chandelier and now had his eyes on me. He still wore the shit-eating grin, and his look moved to the crowd as if he were directing mine to follow. His head turned toward the door. I swiveled that way to see who had just come in. Nobody. But nearby, in the opposite corner from our table, the corner nearest the front door, I spotted what Rusty’s game was about.
Tony Palmisano and his entourage occupied two tables there. Palmisano sat at a table across from a man with his back to me. With them were two girls, both real lookers. At a smaller adjacent table-fortwo sat my friends Mutt and Jeff, the ones I met north of the river two days earlier. Mutt, the big one, had spotted me too. His gaze scanned the room but kept revisiting our table. I turned back to Rusty.
“Small world, huh?” Rusty’s expression had changed.
That it was. Palmisano’s presence dictated a social visit at some point. But I wanted to hear what Rusty had to say; that is if he’d finished his game.
“What about Tommy’s pals over there?”
Rusty nodded his head towards them. “See the pudgy one, the one with a cigarette in his lips?”
“Yeah.”
“He was at the Krazy Kat the night Tommy and Cresto met up with Marty Connors.”
“Oh yeah? And …”
“And he saw him there, Phil. Saw them at the Krazy Kat. With dates. He says they only stuck around for a quick drink and then the two couples took off together.”
“What he say about the dame Tommy brought?”
“The kid didn’t know her, never seen her before. He said she was a knockout, long blond hair, and a nice figure.” Rusty lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew a streak of smoke at the chandelier.
“The pudgy kid said she was classy looking, classier than anything he’d ever taken out. Everyone at his table laughed when he told me that, and his brunette popped him on the arm, and whined that he never says anything nice like that about her.”
“Anything else?” I asked. Some stagehands were on the bandstand setting up for Count Basie.
“Nope, that’s all he had.”
A waitress cloaked in flimsy, fringy white arrived and asked if we wanted a menu. Rusty looked at me and I shook my head. Then he pondered while the waitress violently chewed her wad of gum.
“Just bring me a club sandwich, and we’ll have a couple of Jim Beams on the rocks.”
The server nodded, snapped her gum and said, “Okay, boys, be right back.” She swirled around with an expertise that showed us a brief moment of panty—also white—then sauntered towards the kitchen.
“Nice,” Rusty said.
“Yep. Maybe I’ll order a sandwich when she gets back.” I tapped out a Lucky Strike, struck a match on my shoe and lit up.
“So what did the kid have to say about Tommy hanging around with Lazzeri mobsters?” I asked.
“The kid said that Tommy made a lot of his pals mad, especially those whose families were tied with Lazzeri’s Irish competitors. The kid said that Tommy had better watch himself or he might wake up one morning dead, if he isn’t already.”
I watched the kids work at impressing their dates. The doughy looking one that Rusty had spoken with didn’t look any older than fifteen. He wore an ill-fitted black tux that looked as if he’d raided his old man’s closet. Pudge waved a cigarette around as he spoke. His girl giggled and cooed, apparently entranced. Or maybe she was only entranced with the kid’s bank account.
“There is one more thing,” Rusty said.
“After I arrived, as I was sitting down, a couple three tables over got up and headed for the door. It was our friend, Detective Harman. He looked straight at me. No question, he saw me.”
“Oh, yeah, what’d you do?”
“Smiled and gave him the finger.”
I nodded. “Good for you. Patterson with him?”
Rusty shook his head in the negative. “A dame. A real looker. She fit our girl Cresto’s description.”
Interesting. I had no doubt that Harman would have identified Palmisano and his mob. If Harman wasn’t lead-footing it out of there when he saw them, then maybe Cresto isn’t in Dutch with the Black Hand. Why would he bring her out in public at all if she was in danger?
“Sure it was her?” I asked.
“No, Phil.” Rusty sounded exasperated. “I’ve never seen her before. The dame matched her description, young, long blond hair, gorgeous. That’s all.”
“I guess that was a stupid question.”
“That’s okay, I considered the questioner.”
Our white-clad waitress returned in no time with the goods. I gave her a fin, told her to keep the change and to keep an eye on our bourbon glasses. The big tip pleased her, and she showcased an even more accomplished swirl.
While Rusty devoured his sandwich—I hadn’t thought it possible to down the whole thing in four bites—I watched Palmisano and his attendants. The folks at the big table seemed to be having a grand time. But Mutt and Jeff were all business, eyes constantly moving, and I’d bet their glasses held Coca-Cola. I figured I better go have a chat with Palmisano before Basie took the stage. No sense in interrupting their enjoyment of the Count. Rusty belched and wished me luck.
I stood, felt the comfort of my .38 tucked at the small of my back, and strolled across the place, my heels clicking on the marble. The observant ones spotted me coming. Once I got near, Mutt stood and made to intercept me while Jeff walked over to his boss, bent down and spoke to him. Still twenty feet away, Mutt stopped me with a hand on my chest.
“I’d remove that hand if I were you, friend.”
He had three inches and thirty pounds on me, but apparently he also had some brains because he removed the hand while remaining in my path. “Mr. Palmisano don’t want to see you, Mr. Morris. And if you don’t want more trouble than you can handle, you’ll walk away.”
I didn’t try to get around him. I tried reason. “I only want a few minutes of his time. I would like to ask him some questions on behalf of Mr. Holloway. Ask him if he’ll talk to me.”
“It ain’t happening. Turn around or I’ll turn you around.”
We approached an impasse that might have led to an impressive conflict; I know I had my doubts about the outcome. But it wasn’t to be this time. A voice from behind called out.
“Sal, bring Morris over here.”
The big guy looked over his shoulder. “Sure thing Mr. Palmisano.”
He accompanied me to the table. And when we arrived, he said to Palmisano, “He’s got a rod in the back of his belt under his coat, boss.”
“That’s okay, Salvatore, I don’t think he plans to use it.” He turned to the girl next to him. “Peg, don’t you have to powder your nose?”
“No, Tony, I’m fine.”
“No, Peg, I think your nose needs powder. Cindy, why don’t you help?”
Taking the cue, Cindy popped out of her seat. “Come on, Peg.” The girls took their leave.
“Have a seat, Morris,” Palmisano said, pointing to the one Peg had occupied. I sat.
I didn’t recognize the fella across the table, and Palmisano didn’t offer an introduction. Mutt and Jeff had reclaimed their seats. They both kept their eyes pasted on me, and Jeff’s hand disappeared inside his coat and stayed there. Palmisano lit a cigarette and I carefully reached inside my coat with just two fingers for my cigarette case—no sense dying for a smoke. I tapped one out of the pack.
“Forget the butt, Morris; you ain’t gonna be here that long. You want to ask about the Holloway kid. You got two minutes.”
I lit the Lucky anyway and took a big draw. “So tell me about the kid.” I watched his face for a tell, something that might give me a clue of what lay behind his words. Palmisano had heavy eyelids that drooped as if he needed sleep, but his milk chocolate brown eyes were sharp and alert, and they held no mirth. I wondered if they ever did.
Palmisano set his cigarette down in the ashtray and turned his chair to face me. “The Holloway kid tagged along with my mouthpiece and ran errands for him, and for me. He said he wanted to be a lawyer. And I figured the kid might be a good connection to the father.”
“Depends.”
“On what?” he asked.
“On what became of him and what part you had in it.” For a moment his brows straightened, his eyes only tiny slits.
“Look, Morris, to me he was just a silver-spoon brat who might be useful. Whoever done whatever to the kid, it wasn’t me or my associates.”
“Any idea whoever did whatever?” I asked.
He crushed out his butt and flipped his hands in the air. “Okay, we’re done here. Boys?” The two goons stood. “Show this bum back to his table.”