by Simon Brett
‘Tell you what, Spagsy,’ said Chapstick magnanimously. ‘If Deveroox ever treats Mary bad, if he ever tries again to get out of their engagement or cornswiggles another broad when they’re actually married . . . I hand him over to you for icing. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? Is it a deal.’
After a long moment Spagsy Chiaparelli nodded. The two men shook hands.
Luther P. Chapstick III nodded. ‘Get him in the limo.’
Jimmy ‘The Moose’ Fettuchini and Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini stepped forward, but Blotto didn’t need an escort. He was quite happy – and actually felt rather relieved – to be getting into the Chapstick Towers car.
So he didn’t hear his prospective father-in-law lean across to Chiaparelli and whisper, ‘But, Spagsy, if you’re still feeling bad about not having someone to ice, find Deveroox’s sister. She’s more trouble than a kettle full of scorpions. You have my permission to ice her any day you want.’
21
The White Knight Errant
Luther P. Chapstick III was silent as the limousine drove them back to Chapstick Towers. So were Jimmy ‘The Moose’ Fettuchini and Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini. They were a good ten minutes into the journey before Blotto realized that his Lagonda was still in the barn. The urge to suggest they return to reclaim it was only momentary. Even someone of Blotto’s limited intellectual powers could recognize that he’d had a lucky escape from being iced. And further irritating the hypersensitive Spagsy Chiaparelli would just be asking for trouble.
He wondered if he would ever see the Lagonda again.
The thought that he wouldn’t plunged him into another cold bath of gloom. Twinks’s plan for him to escape the clutches of Mary Chapstick by slipping the sweets to Choxy Mulligan had been completely blown out of the water. And since she’d been so atypically slow coming up with that scheme, he wasn’t over-optimistic about her devising another before the dreadful shutter of his impending marriage slammed down.
He couldn’t wait to see Twinks again. Even if she couldn’t offer him a practical solution, she would at least commiserate with his wretchedness.
* * *
Paul Sidney and Twinks had pounded the mean streets of Chicago all evening trying to find information about her brother, but without success. The bums in the gutters knew nothing, the good-time girls in the doorways drew blanks, and the speakeasy barkeeps shook their heads. Wearily the two investigators trudged their way back to the Bay Street office.
The cold rain stung their cheeks like pellets of lead. Heavy clouds blanketed the Windy City, but without the warmth of blankets. The only light came from the small flickering glow of Paul Sidney’s integrity.
Inside the office he hung their dripping coats on the rack, reached into a filing cabinet for the scotch bottle and two grubby glasses. Wordlessly he poured a handful of fingers into each and passed one across to Twinks. She sipped it gratefully.
‘Sorry,’ said Paul Sidney.
‘Sorry? Why?’
‘That your brother’s not to be found.’
‘Oh, he’s to be found. We just haven’t found him yet.’
‘People who cross Spagsy Chiaparelli don’t get found.’
‘It’ll be different with Blotto.’
Sidney moved across to look out of the dusty window at the back of his office. Not much of a view. Small yard barely big enough to stab a punk in. Broken furniture, broken dreams. Enough rainwater to wash it dirty.
‘Lousy place,’ he said, ‘but somebody owns it. Somebody screws rent for it out of me and other sad goons who’ve ended up here. Somebody owns everything. Somebody owns everyone. A very few fat rich men own all the others. And no one lifts a finger to stop them. That’s how the game is played. Always has been. It’s hard for a man to keep faith in a world like that, but it’s the only one we’ve got.’
After a long, long silence he said, ‘You don’t wear a wedding ring.’
‘No,’ Twinks agreed. ‘In England you have to have a husband to get one of them. I don’t have one.’
‘I bet a lot of men have asked you.’
‘Maybe. Have you been married, Mr Sidney?’
‘There’ve been women.’
‘I didn’t doubt it.’
‘But some want too much and some don’t want enough.’
‘And what do you want?’ asked Twinks.
‘I don’t want to compromise. Anywhere in my life. So if I don’t find the perfect dame, I’d rather stay alone. It hurts, but not as bad as hurting someone else.’
Twinks was silent, wondering how long he could keep this circuitous monologue going.
Quite a lot longer, it seemed. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘what are the chances of meeting someone perfect in Chicago? Everyone here is corroded by the rust of despair. The blight of disappointment. The running sores of corruption. Hard to achieve perfection in a hellhole like this.’
Again she couldn’t think of any relevant comment.
‘You’re a dame who looks perfect, Twinks. Maybe we could play sad jazz together for a while.’
‘I rather doubt it,’ she said, aggrieved at being commandeered into his fantasy.
‘No, you’re right. It wouldn’t last.’
‘It wouldn’t last because it wouldn’t start,’ said Twinks tartly.
He nodded, a little ruefully. ‘Probably better that way. Dames like to have men’s full attention. They never get that with me. A part of my mind is always thinking about injustice.’
‘No woman would be very keen on playing second fiddle to injustice.’
‘No. I guess that’s why, with all the dames I meet, nothing lasts very long.’
‘It could be one of the reasons,’ Twinks agreed.
‘But is justice such a lot to ask for? With all the dames who fall for me—’
Mercifully, so far as Twinks was concerned, the private investigator was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.
He snatched it up. ‘Sidney.’ Immediately recognizing the voice at the other end of the line, he asked, ‘What gives? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh? Uh-huh!’
He slammed the receiver down in its cradle and sprang back to the window. ‘Informant of mine. He says Spagsy’s boys’re coming here!’
‘What have you done to upset him?’
‘It’s not me they’re after. It’s you!’
‘How do they know I’m here?’
‘That barkeep, Freddie “The Cheese and Tomato” Macaroni, must’ve blabbed.’
Downing the remains of her scotch and picking up her reticule, Twinks announced, ‘I’d better get out of here as quick as a lizard’s lick!’
‘No time,’ said Paul Sidney, looking down from the window to the yard below. ‘They’re coming in the back way.’ He looked round in panic.
‘What about that cupboard?’ suggested Twinks.
‘Cupboard?’ echoed the private investigator.
Remembering she was in a foreign country, Twinks said, ‘Closet.’
‘Good thinking,’ he said, bustling her in, throwing her coat after her and locking the door.
He just had time to slip her scotch glass into the filing cabinet and raise his to his lips as he sank in his swivel chair, when the office door was forced open by the considerable bulk of Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle and Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini. They had foregone the formality of violin cases and just held naked Tommy guns.
‘So, Mr Sidney,’ growled Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle, ‘we meet again.’
‘So we do,’ said Paul Sidney coolly. He had just lit up, and let out a little cloud of cigarette smoke. He watched it melt in the rather dim light of the office.
‘I still ain’t forgiven you for having Giovanni “Glass Eye” Campanelle canned.’
The private investigator shrugged. ‘He took out Luigi “Kneecaps” Farfalloni. He was lucky to escape the noose.’
‘Yeah, but that was Mob business. No need to get the cops and the judiciary involved.’
‘I’m sorry,�
� Paul Sidney replied, with a note of nobility in his voice. ‘I can’t see injustice without wanting to get it replaced by justice.’
‘In this city that’s the way to end up dead,’ said Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle.
‘Risk I have to take.’ Paul Sidney let another stream of bluish cigarette smoke lose itself in the darkness above him.
‘Anyway,’ Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini interrupted brusquely, ‘we ain’t here to talk about dead cases, Sidney. Spagsy Chiaparelli reckons you’ve got something he wants.’
‘I wonder what that might be . . . ?’ Then the private investigator suggested, ‘Honesty?’
‘Don’t come the wise guy with me,’ said Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini, waving a threatening Tommy gun, ‘or you’ll be eating a lead breakfast. Spagsy don’t like jokes. Remember, when Dino “The Blini” Strozzapreti told him the one about the salesman and the farmer’s daughter? Spagsy iced him. Anyway, let’s cut the cackle. Spagsy says you’ve been seen around the city with some English frail called Twinks.’
‘What if I have?’
‘Spagsy wants her.’
‘What for?’
‘That’s Spagsy’s business.’
‘I think it might be my business too. Suppose he wanted her for immoral purposes . . . or to do her some harm . . . well, I don’t know whether my conscience would allow me to hand her over . . . that is if I even knew where she was.’
‘Sure you know,’ rasped Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle. ‘Freddie “The Cheese and Tomato” Macaroni said he’d seen you with her less than an hour ago.’
‘An hour’s a long time. Plenty for a dame to leave my company. Many’ve done it quicker. If you want the truth, this frail called Twinks has gone back to where she’s staying. Which . . .’ Paul Sidney grinned sardonically ‘. . . and I’ll give you this information for free, is old Luther P. Chapstick III’s place.’
‘If she’s gone back there,’ said Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini, ‘our job’s done. It was Chapstick who told Spagsy he wanted her iced.’
In the breathheld silence of her cupboard (or rather closet – though it still felt like a cupboard to her) Twinks was shocked by this news, but she managed not to let out a gasp of surprise.
‘Well,’ said Sidney, ‘I guess you go and check things out at Chapstick Towers.’
‘Yeah, maybe that’s what we should do,’ said Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini.
His partner wasn’t convinced ‘This dingle might be saying that to put us off the scent.’ Without asking permission, Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle picked up the phone on the desk and asked for the Chapstick number. When he got through he barked out a series of questions, then replaced the mouthpiece on its cradle.
‘Just talked to Jimmy “The Moose” Fettuchini,’ he announced. ‘No sign of the girl there, though her mug of a brother’s returned safely.’
In the cupboard/closet Twinks restrained a ‘Larksissimo!’ of triumph and vindication.
‘So,’ Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle continued, ‘she ain’t there, and I still think you know where she is, Sidney, and I think we can persuade you to give us that information.’ Both he and Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini raised their Tommy guns menacingly to their shoulders.
Paul Sidney chuckled. ‘OK, you blow me away – where does that get you? Dead mouths don’t spill many beans.’
‘No, but if maybe we hurt you a little . . . ? “Nostrils” is famous for the fretwork he does with his blade. Maybe there’s bits of you that could do with a bit of fancy carving . . . ?’
‘You can try.’ Paul Sidney rolled up a sleeve of his jacket and shirt, exposing his forearm. ‘Like to start your artwork there, would you?’ Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini looked at his mate for permission while the private investigator went on, ‘But I’d better warn you, I’ll die before my mouth gets unclammed. So it’ll be just like you blown me away.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Toni ‘Nostrils’ Linguini, putting down his Tommy gun and producing a wicked-looking knife from a hidden shoulder-sheath, ‘but I might have more fun going the pretty way.’
Another shrug from Paul Sidney. ‘Do it whichever way you want. You’ll still get nothing.’
Linguini looked lovingly at his blade, then once again appealed to Papardelle, who shook his head. ‘We ain’t tried offering him the mazuma yet.’
Paul Sidney laughed out loud. ‘Well, if you think I can be bought, then—’
‘Every man has his price,’ said Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle, taking a roll of greenbacks out of his trouser pocket and detaching a couple. ‘Two grand says you tell us where the girl is.’
‘No, it doesn’t. It just tells me what a low-rent pair of grifters you are.’
Three more notes were unrolled. ‘Five grand.’
Another harsh laugh. ‘You got the wrong man. Five grand might buy you a run-down cop with an eel juice problem. It don’t buy Paul Sidney.’
Five more greenbacks were added to the proffering hand. ‘Ten grand. How many days snooping would it take you to pull in that much?’
‘That’s not really the question. After a day’s snooping I can at least look at my face in the mirror.’
Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle unrolled a lot more notes. ‘Fifty grand. I bet you never even seen that amount of money.’
‘No, and I wouldn’t want to . . . not unless I knew for sure that the notes were clean. And I don’t figure anything that’s spent any time in your pocket is anywhere near clean.’
The unrolling of notes continued. So did Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle. ‘Like I said, every man has his price.’ He patted the dollars into a neat brick. ‘You tell me where that frail Twinks is, Mr Sidney, and I give you a hundred grand. How’s about that?’
‘Ah, now you’re talking,’ said the private investigator, leaning across to scoop up the money. ‘She’s in the closet.’
22
Twinks in Peril!
‘We got the girl,’ said Spagsy Chiaparelli on the telephone to Chapstick Towers. ‘What you want we do with her?’
‘Take her for a ride. She’s trouble.’ The meat-packing magnate looked viciously from his desk across the November expanse of Lake Michigan.
‘Don’t you need her for the wedding? If Mary’s marrying her brother?’
‘No, better she takes a powder. The boy’s a bozo, he’ll do what he’s told. The sister’s got brains, though. Moose told me she been snooping around my study. Copied some documents about a little plan I have to deal with the Katzenjammers once and for all. Like I say, she’s trouble.’
‘So I ice her?’
‘You ice her.’
‘You got it. Moving on to the New York business . . .’
Luther P. Chapstick III was instantly alert. ‘Yeah?’
‘Hit a bit of rough water there.’
‘Whaddya mean? The deal’s still on?’
‘It’s on for the moment. But Harry “Three Bananas” Pennoni’s getting a bit antsy about his payment. Wants it within forty-eight hours or the deal’s off.’
‘So we get it to him within forty-eight hours. Where’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that the New York cops don’t toe the line like they do here in Chicago.’
‘Sounds like Harry “Three Bananas” Pennoni ain’t doing his job.’
‘Too right he ain’t. That’s why we want to get in there. Give me coupla months, we’ll have them like the Chicago cops – all lapdogs. But at the moment there’s some new palooka in charge of New York’s finest. He’s been doing sneaky stuff like getting the licence plates of all the autos we run, even getting mugshots of my oppos.’
‘What you telling me, Spagsy?’
‘I’m telling you if any of my regular goons runs the payment down to the Big Apple, there’s a serious danger the New York cops might spot the plate or the noseframe and head them off before they get to Harry “Three Bananas” Pennoni.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Best thing we could do is find some patsy wh
ose record’s as blank as a hooker’s conscience. We get him driving some wheels that aren’t on the cops’ lists. He takes the stuff to Pennoni.’
‘You got some chimp in mind?’
‘No. Work I do means most of my acquaintances do have the odd blot on their records. Thought you might know someone . . . ? Needs to be a real bozo, kinda dingle who’d never realize he was being set up.’
At that moment the door to Luther P. Chapstick III’s study opened. A bark of ‘Come in!’ admitted Blotto. A smile spread over the cattle baron’s stony features. ‘You know, Spagsy,’ he said, ‘I think I might have the perfect person. I’ll call you back.’
After he’d replaced the mouthpiece, he positively beamed at his prospective son-in-law. ‘Well, Deveroox,’ he asked, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘I was just wondering, Mr Chapstick . . .’
‘Luther, please . . .’ came the reply, an informality that hadn’t been offered before.
‘I was wondering if you knew any way I could get my Lagonda back . . . ?’
‘Do you know, son,’ replied Luther P. Chapstick III, his voice dripping with bonhomie, ‘I think I know the perfect way.’
Expecting Spagsy Chiaparelli, Choxy Mulligan looked up at her apartment door when she heard the key in the lock. To her surprise three people walked in – Vic ‘Rat Teeth’ Papardelle and Michael ‘Two Legs’ Conchiglioni, frogmarching a reluctant-looking Twinks.
‘What’s this about?’ asked Choxy.
‘The Boss wants you to look after this dame for a while,’ said Papardelle.
‘Oh?’
‘He’s busy icing some dingle who’s two-handed him in one of his gambling joints. He’ll pick up the girl when he’s shot of that.’
‘That is,’ said Twinks with patrician froideur, ‘if I am still here.’
‘You’ll still be here,’ Michael ‘Two Legs’ Conchiglioni assured her. ‘No escape from this place, is there, Choxy?’
With a note of wistfulness in her voice, the singer agreed that there wasn’t. For a moment Twinks wondered how voluntary Choxy Mulligan’s consorting with Spagsy Chiaparelli was. Any weakness in the woman, any resentment about being owned by the capo dei capi might be something Twinks could work on to effect an escape.