by Jack Kline
“The kid was using the six hundred G ransom to hire the Detroit mob. The Detroiters would then pare the Black Hand down to a more manageable size.” Myers chortled as he told me that part. “And then that ballsy kid was going to make it look as if Palmisano and his boys pulled off the kidnapping.”
“Hannerty?” came out so softly the stenographer asked me to repeat it.
“Hannerty,” Myers said. “Conor Hannerty, the Holloway butler.” The stenographer scribbled.
“The butler didn’t make it. Was he the bagman?” Myers asked.
I tried to nod my head without moving it and settled on nodding my eyes. Myers acknowledged.
“Survivors?”
“Just you and the kid.”
“Cresto?” I was fading, but I needed to hang on.
“Funny thing. There never was a Cresto.” Myers smiled and leaned forward. “See, the kid and his sister were also scamming Harman, who was dirty by the way, and so was Detective Patterson. The kid and his sister never could quite finish their play on Harman and Patterson because of the gun battle. The kids had their sights set on some or all of the six hundred grand Harman was supposed to turn over to the Detroit mob. That would have left Harman in dutch with the Detroiters.”
Myers nodded in admiration. “The D.A. is working a plea-bargain deal with the kid and his father. He won’t do much time.”
“Sister?” I tried to ask it with authority, but my voice fizzled.
Myers shook his head. “Took two in the torso. Dead before the first officer arrived.”
“Colleen?” I choked and coughed and the chest pain soared.
“Yeah, that was the sister’s name. Now, can you tell me how it all went down?”
The nurse, not Rusty’s nurse from hell but one from the same neighborhood, stepped to the far side of the bed. “He’ll do no such thing. Your time’s up, officer.”
“It’s Detective Chief, ma’am.”
“I don’t care if it’s Charles Lindbergh. You two,” she pointed a lean finger at them. “Out of here.”
Myers acquiesced. “Tomorrow then, Mr. Morris. You get better.”
My nurse shut the door behind them, closed the drapes, and shut off all but one small light. She saw that tears streaked my cheeks. “Here now,” she handed me some pills. “These will get you to sleep.”
I took them and she helped me drink a little water.
“They’ll help with the pain too.”
But I knew they wouldn’t.
Christmas Time, 1934
“You all done with your holiday shoppin’, Phil?” Henry asked as the elevator climbed.
“Yep. You?”
“Oh, no, suh. Come this payday Friday, Ol’ Henry’ll have enough to finish up real nice, though.”
“That’s great.”
Neither of us spoke again on the ride, but we shared wide holiday grins. Henry stopped us perfectly on floor three.
“Oh, almost forgot.” I reached into my coat pocket and handed Henry three plump, Cuban Presidente cigars, held together with a red ribbon and a ten dollar bill. “Merry Christmas, Henry.”
“And to you and yours, Phil.”
I limped down the hall feeling good. The time of year could do that. The Holloway dough was almost gone, but I enjoyed spending on others at Christmastime.
A few weeks ago, a comment like Henry’s “you and yours” might stick with me, set me to feeling sorry for myself. Long ago I had partitioned off feelings about the deaths of my parents. Now I was working on a new partition a little bit more each day. But there’d be no dwelling on shadows that day. Holiday spirit captivated, and I was its willing captive.
Jill had placed a spruce garland wreath on our office door. The scent of conifer permeated the hallway. I took a big sniff as I turned the knob.
“Morning, Jill.”
“Morning, Boss.” A small Christmas tree adorned the corner file cabinet, complete with tiny packages underneath. She had a vase of poinsettias on her desk, compliments of Rusty. And Jill had made spiced cider. She sipped at a mug. It smelled good.
“Rusty in yet?”
After the case last fall, Rusty and I had decided to combine our agencies. Rusty finally got Jill as his secretary. As a team, with reduced overhead, we could even offer her a nice raise. During an initial disagreement over whose name should come first, Jill had piped in, “How about Two Gimps Detective Agency?”
T.G. Agency, Private Investigators was born.
“Rusty’s in and gone,” Jill said. “He’s following up on the Northtown mortgage scam case.”
“I thought that was all wrapped up.”
Jill shook her head. “Rusty says it’s deeper than we think.”
“I think Rusty’s deeper than we think. He’s in deep up there chasing some skirt.” I sat at my desk crammed in next to Rusty’s. We’d need bigger digs once we dug ourselves out financially.
Rusty had a bevy of women in his life. He reveled in them collectively. Jill and I teased him about it.
Someday I’ll meet a woman and feel something again. I smiled at the thought. These days I no longer chase skirts, but still, somehow I’ll find her. On a crowded street, in a jazz club, I’ll find her, someone who will close the hollow longing in my life. She’ll love dogs, and even love me. We’ll marry, and have kids, and live in a nice bungalow near Swope Park.
I shook my head. Who was I kidding? Though I longed for such a love, a life like that was not to be for me. Girls enjoyed having a good time with me. In many ways, some even fell for me. But I wasn’t the kind of Joe a girl takes home to meet Mom and Dad. Even if one wanted me in that way, I remember the emptiness that colored my mother’s life after my father was murdered. How could I pass on that legacy to a woman I loved? And I couldn’t bear to think of my own son, or worse, my daughter, living with the news that their father had been popped by some button man.
I’d chosen a different road, and I’d live just fine with that hollowness, that longing. I always have.
I leaned back and swiveled to and fro, but didn’t reach for the Jim Beam drawer—nothing there anymore but a telephone book. I’d been off the Beam since October twelfth. It hadn’t been easy.
“Jill?”
“Yeah?”
“Got any more of that cider?”
“Sure do, Boss. And you can have a mug right after you take one to Henry.”
Sounded like a good plan.
The End
Acknowledgments
My Literature of Noir professor at Kansas University, Mark Luce, sparked the idea for this book, and offered advice in its early stages. Thanks goes out to the Kansas City Writers group, and my homies Beth, Pam, Theresa, Norm, and Mike at SWG. They helped guide me away from the pratfalls of wordiness and contributed sound story advice.
Undying gratitude goes to fellow writer Priscilla Myers, who has been my confidant since this story’s inception. She propped me up when I needed it and slapped me down when warranted. Priscilla also provided her valuable, nit-picking Miss Thistlebottom line edits throughout.
My wife, Nancy, doesn’t read my stuff until it’s published. That’s my hang-up, not hers. She is an avid, savvy reader. But we found out a long time ago when she reads my work in progress, I project judgmentalism where there is only constructive advice, and false praise when it’s genuine. So, she waits until I’m published, when my spousal idiosyncrasies melt away. But Nancy gives support in every other conceivable way. And when she reads the published work and says it’s really good, I believe her, whether it’s true or not.
Jack Kline
May, 2017
Jack Kline
Jack Kline’s award winning short stories and essays have appeared in numerous publications, including Star Magazine, Kansas City Voices, the popular Chicken Soup for the Soul book series, and United Kingdom’s Prole Magazine. His collection of short stories, Blowing Carbon, was published in 2009. But Not for Me is his first novel. Jack lives with his family, dogs and horses near Louisbur
g, Kansas, USA.
Other Books by This Author
Blowing Carbon - Short Stories and Essays - 2009