“I was kidding youse. I have them bad habits, not trusting nobody. We’ll wait for dark. They’ll angle for us to release these birds. We can use that for cover—they won’t figure a break then. I’ve got a way out. Youse relax.” Clouds of stink rose from his stale cigar.
“Whatever you say, bossman—this is your play.”
His eyes were devilish. “I sent Zigs out to give orders to the cell block leaders. He doesn’t know it yet but he ain’t goin’. There’s only room for two. I like the way youse stood up to Zigs. You cover my back until we get where we’re going. After . . . youse on your own.”
I knew there was little I could do for Wilkerson. Everyone knew he was Carty’s rat. Helping him would blow my cover like a transvestite dressing down in a girl’s locker room. Jimmy Klocker was near Wilkerson and I hoped I could trust him.
Get over there and pretend to take revenge on Wilkerson. Signal Jimmy to watch Wilkerson’s back when the break comes. Dad only spoke to me when I was in a jam, and I couldn’t imagine a bigger one than this. I had to trust him that Doak’s plan would get me out, somehow.
“I owe Wilkerson some payback,” I said to Doak. “Do you mind?”
Doak blew another cloud of smoke and let out a harsh laugh. “Suit yourself, smart boy.”
I moved across the cluttered floor just before a shower of steel pipes and glass shards poured down from the top tier. Jimmy huddled against the wall behind Wilkerson. I knelt in front of Wilkerson and put on a bitter face. Then I winked at Jimmy and gave Wilkerson some knuckles, quick and hard across the chops.
“See you later, stoolie,” I said, loud enough for Doak and his boys to hear. I made a quick motion with my eyes to Wilkerson’s bonds and winked again at Jimmy. A worm of blood trickled down from the corner of Wilkerson’s mouth. I knew Wilkerson had been kind to Klocker. If things got dicey I hoped Jimmy could untie him before the riot was over.
Just right, son.
Minutes before midnight a loudspeaker blared from the courtyard, ordering the men to come out with their hands in the air. The answer was another hail of refuse and catcalls.
The floodlights against the cellblock cast an eerie blue pall into the print shop. All the power had been cut within an hour of the uprising. It was chilling.
Doak nudged me and crawled over to the receiving area behind a desk. He rapped his knuckles on a green metal access door about two-foot square on the floor. The door was stenciled hazard warning for high voltage. I pried it up.
Doak lowered himself into a shallow crawl space, and motioned for me to follow. Standing in the crawl space I took one last look across the war zone. The bent form of Ziagorski approached.
Two figures tackled Ziggy from behind —Jimmy and Wilkerson. I pulled down the access cover and crawled past hulking electrical panels toward the flicker of Doak’s cigarette lighter. Near the edge of the crawl space was a freshly dug shaft. Our way out. It must have taken a con months to dig, as there was so little room for the operation. But where did they put all the dirt?
Doak lowered himself first and dropped six feet to a horizontal tunnel, high enough to crawl through—the cleanest little escape tunnel you ever did see. I hesitated, waiting for Dad’s voice to assure me, but it didn’t come.
Five minutes later we came up in the basement of a vacant house on Quinton Avenue, just east of the prison. Whoever dug the tunnel had put all diggings out into the basement of the house. Now I knew why Doak wanted to wait, and why he wasn’t worried about the print shop being surrounded. It was one sweet break out. I figured Doak was the only con who knew about the tunnel, the work having been done from outside the prison. Doak had powerful friends. Maybe the same pals that send Hovard looking for Joe Ambler.
A giggly, 98-pound, bottle-bleached dame in tight leopard print pants and a bulging halter was cheating at solitaire by candlelight in the kitchen. She let out a squeal and jumped into Bernard Doak’s arms when we strolled into the room.
Except for the giggler, the place was empty.
We changed into some waiting clothes and piled outside into a Plymouth coupe parked around the corner. Doak handed me a .32 and told me to drive north and not to stop until I hit 125th street in Harlem. Meanwhile he and leopard pants did the best two out of three wrestling falls in the back seat. I cracked the wing window and turned on the radio, trying to tune in the news and breathe through the lily water the dame had bathed in. Riots must have been old stuff at the prison—no news. Doak had rehearsed hostage riots before and knew just how much time he’d need for his plan to unfold. He wasn’t as dumb as he looked—no one could be that stupid.
I tried not to glance in the rear view mirror, but the dame was doing some pretty fine blues moaning and had obviously taken riding lessons before. Doak wouldn’t need Heddy’s panties now. It was difficult to concentrate on driving but Doak’s action wasn’t much longer than a couple of sneezes and a hiccup. All that rotting in stir hadn’t done much for his stamina.
I had a feeling that Miss leopard-spots’ appetite wasn’t sated. I was cruising through the Holland Tunnel when Bernard leaned over the seat.
“Change places for a whirl or two, Mike? She’s enough chippy for both of us. Have youse ever seen a rounder ass on a small broad? Anyways, pull over. I’ll drive from here. I need a break.”
I pulled over once I was through the tunnel and slid to the door. For an instant I was tempted to get in back, but couldn’t count on Doak’s impulse to share. There was a good chance the lady might prefer a private’s privates. And, Daok might resent my easily breaking his endurance record.
Blondie sulked in the back seat and tickled her fingernails on the back of my neck a few times. The drive uptown went quickly. I think that’s the way the lady wanted it.
***
The brownstone apartment had everything we needed. I asked Doak if I could call another PI friend of mine, someone who was trying to dig me up an alibi, and he distractedly shrugged his approval.
One small wrinkle—he took back the .32 and cuffed me to the bed stand.
“I want to make sure youse here in the a.m., pal. Mister Big in Red Bank has a job planned.”
Chapter 12 – A Dirty Double for Variety’s Sake
Doak found more steam and the happy couple retired to a back room for another round of pushups. I had one free hand and the phone by the bed. I wanted to call a locksmith but dialed Heddy’s home number. It was three in the morning. I gave her the address and told her I’d need her to come pick me up out front, but I was tied down presently.
Heddy’s sexy, sleepy voice at the end of the wire touched something grateful and tender in me, and I gave her a sincere plea for help, told her I was slowed by a cheap set of nippers but I’d pick them with a nearby nail file or con a dame into letting me out. Heddy wasn’t such a bad heart. She was simply driven by bylines. My plight must have come through to her because she said she’d drive up to Harlem right away and keep the motor running in front of the place.
Now that my ride was on the way, my job was to play Houdini.
Judging from Bernard Doak’s minuteman performance driving up from Jersey, I figured he’d finish again before Blondie did. I was right. When she slid up next to me sans leopard spots about an hour later, I felt vindicated. I also felt other things.
Dottie, she whispered her name was, which I would have forgotten except it was tattooed in script with a small red rose just below her navel. Doak was right—I’d never seen such a tiny broad with such a nice round butt. Her breasts were miniatures of her ass and looked bigger than they were on her tiny body. She was one of those Barbie dolls with a bubble butt and shorter legs.
“Listen, doll, I could do a first rate job with both hands free. How about snatching the key and taking these party favors off?”
“I’ll consider it for later, if you last awhile,” she said, playfully, bobbing her brassy hair down against my stomach as she did things with those petite lips that quickly gained my admiration.
“D
oll, that’s so nice, but how about it? The bracelets?”
“You dicks always want to be in control—why can’t you just take it like a man? You’ve got gorgeous eyes sugar, and I wanted you to do something for me the second I saw you. Deal?”
I agreed and hoped I wouldn’t be sorry. She tiptoed her naked ass back into the other room and pranced back twirling the key ring. I wasn’t sorry.
The brass head frame was digging into my back and I shifted up so she could reach the cuffs. She stood over me and straddled my waist, then held the keys just out of reach. A key tease?
“Ready, sugar? I want you to do this real nice. Real nice. If you do, mama will give you sugar back and set you free. But mama warns, if it’s not real slow and hot, mama will throw the key away.” She giggled and showed a perfect set of tiny teeth.
She lowered herself straddling my shoulders. I knew what she wanted. I could reach her hip and guide her with one hand. I focused on the rose tattoo as she moved it closer. She spread her hands high on the wall, stretching her body and swaying her hips back and forth in front of my face. What a view. For the first time I didn’t want to get loose.
She loved having the control. I went right to work. Bernard never did this for her, she moaned, not this good. She was a slow burn rocket, soaring higher and higher.
“Oooh, baby, yes, yes, yes…not fast...slower…yes, like that.”
“Don’t need instructions,” I said softly. “I’m not a virgin.”
Dottie melted against me, pushing, gyrating, grinding, then pulling away and catching her breath. She was taking herself to the precipice and freefalling back. We went on like that for a very long time. I wasn’t sure how long because I lost track of time.
Her legs trembled and she spasmed. It was a preliminary of all preliminaries, and by the time she unlocked me, I was starved to grab that firm young ass with both hands and slip something a bit larger inside her. But I knew Heddy was waiting at the curb by now.
Dottie had promise. It was too bad she was tied up with a limp lay con like Doak. She insisted on staying on top and riding things out. I held out as well as any private dick could. When she’d taken me to the edge a few times she brought us home. I showed my gratitude and when she finally exploded, she whimpered into the pillow and cooed gratitude in my ear. When I left she was lying crossways on the bed, purring how she’d never known it so good. She went to sleep pretty fast and never heard me leave. Bernard Doak didn’t either.
I ran out of the shadows to Heddy’s Chevy coupe, parked halfway down the block. She aimed the coupe through the City to the Merritt Parkway, wheeling like a veteran cabbie. We didn’t talk much until she pulled in at a Howard Johnson’s just outside of New Haven. I was feeling pretty good, pretty relaxed from Dottie’s workout, and didn’t snap out of it until we pulled off the Parkway.
Heddy steered to a dark corner of the back lot. When she switched off the ignition and turned to me there was still moonlight filtering through the trees. It fell across her face. A strange look rested in her eyes, just like it had that day at the prison, when she slipped her panties off. I took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. She let herself be pulled close, without fighting it or helping it. She tasted sweet, very sweet. When I let go of her shoulders she was breathing hot. The lava was gurgling up. I was surprised by my renewed excitement. But it’s like Dad always said, a real man wants variety. Big, small, blonde, brunette, Swedish, Chinese, young, old—any dame that’s different. It was something women didn’t share and didn’t understand. A cave man thing, he always called it, and laughed about the cosmic joke of it all.
Even with desire, Heddy was as different from leopard pants as a fresh coed is from a hooker. But not naïve like a fresh coed, just a layer of pretense. She was variety I wanted bad.
She leaned back against the door. We stared at each other like two jungle cats in heat. Then she said: “Okay. That was nice. But I’m here for the story—you made it out of the pen somehow, and now you’re after Bunny. Promise me the whole story, an exclusive, and I’ll lead you to her.” I was thinking her good old byline addiction was stronger than my male need for dirty doubles.
“I might. But it’s big, maybe too big,” I said, glancing down in my lap where she’d nestled her hand. “I’d hate to see your pretty face messed up by these hoods—and they would if they found out you helped me. I broke out with Bernard Doak—hearda him?”
She nodded and put her hand exactly where I wanted it. She rubbed me the right way, Heddy did. My heart shifted into second gear, the tach needle bouncing happily.
A man seldom knows his limits. With the marathon workout from Dottie, I wouldn’t have thought—but I had more control than she probably thought I might. I acted casual and didn’t drool.
“Doak? Detroit mobster in for kidnapping a Jersey state trooper in that Monmouth Park murder back in ’46. Sure, we drag out his file and write a feature once or twice a year. People like to hear about links to the Capone days. Smoke still rises from that scandal.” She kept petting my lap keeping both conversations going, the spoken and the unspoken.
“A little fire too, princess—just like what’s behind your kiss. I never did thank you for pressuring the governor’s office—or, for those bloomers. Those black lace jobs with the violet scent got me here.”
Even in the dim light I could see her ears turn bright pink. I needed her to get me to Bunny, but decided not to push the mushy stuff just then, even though this dame was definitely growing on me. She was slowly melting my concentration.
Evidently, she had her own agenda because she rushed back at me with her mouth, hungry for more. The sweat on her lip was salty and warm. Her hand groped my zipper.
The closer she was, the better she looked. She half-whispered, “You’re welcome, Mike. For both the commutation and the lace item. But, I’ve learned my lesson, you see. I won’t stick my neck out for innocent cons again and . . . I don’t wear panties any more.”
“Oh, I believe you, doll,” I said, rather off-handedly as she slid closer, “but I am an investigator—I should investigate to keep things professional.”
She hiked her skirt up and straddled me. With excellent investigative technique I confirmed the lady’s claim. No panties. She slipped her tongue inside my mouth and rocked her hips with just enough pressure to get my full attention. Then she cooed: “The whole story?”
“Maybe.” I was fast losing my steely control. Maybe meant more.
She rocked harder.
“The whole—hot—story, Mike?”
I didn’t answer, but the fire in my eyes did.
She positioned my interest where it couldn’t be denied. She was proving resourceful. I’d lost my knack for gab. I could see her byline on a front-page exposé. The Purple Gang seemed distant. Finally I was on her side of the prison cage.
“Exclusive?” she purred, several times more in my ear.
When I nodded she gave me what we both wanted. It was a fiery rush, an eruption of major proportions. It was over too quick.
After we finished she reached in the glove box and laid a .38 in my hand. The dame thought of everything. Everything except that I’d want seconds.
Coffee and donuts came a bit later.
Chapter 13 – Bunny LaVelle to Red Bank
The sky was turning from cold green to pink by the time we pulled into New Haven. It was just after five. Even the drug pushers were fast asleep.
The seedy rooming house on Crown Street sat across from Boom-Boom’s, one of those Italian strip clubs where godfathers like to hold court. Heddy had received a tip from a colleague on the New Haven Register that Bunny LaVelle was peeling at the club and shacking up with some small time Guido in a room across the street.
“It’s the basement apartment,” Heddy said. “Around the side, off the alley. She dances ‘til three so she’s probably comatose by now.”
“Smarter than PI’s or news hounds.”
Heddy’s eyes flashed. She’d lost her amorous urges.
“Shut up and figure out a way to get us in.”
“The door will do—just go up and knock. Say you’re a new dancer looking for work.”
“I don’t look much like a dancer.”
I took off her jacket, unbuttoned the top of her blouse, tousled her hair and laid a kiss on her. “Now you do. I’ll be right next to the door. When she opens we’ll make a quick entrance.”
“What if she’s got a man in there? What if—”
I waggled the .38 she’d given me. Her baby face showed some alarm.
“Don’t worry. I know how to use it, Princess.”
The ploy worked. I pushed past Bunny and slammed the door behind us. Bunny slunk back, trembling next to a dresser cluttered with hypo needles and junk. Bunny was alone. Bunny didn’t look so healthy. Bunny wobbled. It took her three stabs to light a cigarette.
“Sit down, Miss Rabbit. You look awful.” I hardened my stare. The revolver aimed between her bloodshot eyes convinced. She clenched the shabby nightgown around her, then slumped back on the soiled pile of rags disguised as a bed. Bunny had more tracks on her arm than Penn Station. Heddy cleared off a chair and sat down.
Just then the thud of a ham-handed fist threatened to jar the door off the hinges.
You’re in control, came the half-whispered voice of Dad somewhere from the back of my brain but sounding like it was coming out of the ceiling light fixture. I looked at Heddy. Just once I wanted someone else to hear the voice, too. But I was the only crazy one.
Through the peephole I examined a rather short, thickset greaseball with toadlike eyes who leaned expressionless inches away. I motioned with the .38 for Bunny to come hither, then whispered what I wanted her to say.
“Go away. I’m not feeling up to company,” she repeated painfully at the door.
“Cut it, Bunny, Mister Big in Red Bank’s expecting us. We’ve got to be on the road.”
It all started to come together: Warden Carty’s grand scheme, the easy way Bernard Doak had taken me under his wing, and Bunny’s disappearance right before my trial. Mister Big in Red Bank—Doak’s words to me in Harlem—Mister Big had a job...
Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery Page 7