by P. N. Elrod
“He is originally from New York. The logical inference is that he knows you from there. If you can recall anyone with that name—”
“He’ll be changing his name like other people change socks. I did know one or two Bennys, though. In New York you practically trip over them; maybe if and when I see him—”
“He was described as a small man, graying hair, lined and lived-in face, forty to forty-five, nervous manner, sometimes affects an Irish accent when he’s in the mood—”
That rang a bell. “Wait, Benny O’Hara, sometimes he’d sell me a tip, you know, where to go to see something interesting.”
“For a news story?”
“That’s how it usually worked. I knew him as Benny O’Hara. How could he have known I was in town?”
“Perhaps he was staying at your hotel. I’ll check on it. I’ve been there once, the night clerk remembers your last visit quite clearly, perhaps I can persuade him to go back a little further in his memory.”
“Yeah, between him and the day clerk there must be something useful.”
“Be assured, I shall try.”
We paused for a red light and a skinny brown kid suddenly poked his face into my window.
“I thought this buggy looked familiar,” he said, grinning at us. “You up here lookin’ for a shine, Mr. Escott?”
“Hello, Cal. Actually I’m looking for a shoe. How are you?”
“Same old stuff, a day late an’ a dollar short.”
“I cannot overcome your time difficulties, but I can possibly aid your monetary problems.” He passed a dollar over to Cal, who made it disappear.
“You’re a real friend. Next time you need a shine, you look me up, it’s on the house.”
“Where will you be?”
“I could be anyplace, but if you go down three blocks and turn right one, the gents on the corner can tell you proper. You just say I sent you.” He flashed his teeth, pushed away from the car, and went off with a quick, pavement-eating stride.
The light changed and Escott followed the directions, easing the big car into an empty space on the curb and letting it idle.
A group of dark men were standing just outside the cone of light from a streetlamp on the corner ahead. Escott told me to stay put and got out. The men had been talking and continued to do so, but their posture had subtly changed. It was apparent they were fully alert to our presence, but content to wait and let us make the first move. Two of them dropped their cigarettes and stood a little straighter, their arms hanging free so they could more easily get to the angular bulges their tight-fitting coats were unable to hide. Two more shifted their weight to the balls of their feet. They moved out and bracketed Escott when he got close enough.
His head moved slightly as he acknowledged them and there was some low conversation I couldn’t quite hear because of the noise of the car. He said something to the armed men; the one on the left shot back a suspicious question. Escott touched his hat and looked reasonable. The man was dissatisfied with the situation, but Escott kept talking and once gestured back to the car, presumably about me. I had half a mind to get out and come over, but this was his show and he didn’t look to be in any immediate danger, despite their belligerent attitudes. I sat and stewed and unsuccessfully tried to read lips.
The man on the left made a decision and sent one of the brackets into the building they were guarding. He came out after a minute with a report even more dissatisfying to the leader, but he nodded grudgingly to Escott. Escott came back and opened my door.
“We’re in.”
“What, the frying pan?”
“The Shoe Box.”
“Is it a speak?”
“It used to be. Now it’s a respectable nightclub.”
“Just how sticky are things?” I gestured with my eyebrows at the men.
“Not very, nothing to worry about now. The gentleman we will see is a cautious fellow, but will welcome us as long as he has sufficient notice. He has a very strong dislike for surprises.”
“Gang boss?”
“What a colorful way you have of phrasing things, no doubt due to your journalistic training.”
“And the fact we’re in Chicago, it seems to be a major industry here.”
“For only a fractional percentage of the population, I assure you. Not everyone here is a boss, someone has to do the support work.”
“Like him?” One of the brackets was walking toward us.
“Yes, well, let’s go.”
I shut off the engine, pulled the keys, and got out. He closed the door and walked away. “Aren’t you going to lock it?”
“There’s no need, no one would dare touch it now.”
I made a casual glance around and noted a few dozen faces watching us from windows and doorways up and down the street; men, women, and even a few kids. They all had the same attentive look about them as the door guards. The Shoe Box was a well-surveyed fortress. I felt like a target in a shooting gallery, which led me to speculate if any of them were armed. Escott seemed comfortable, though, and he was nowhere near as bulletproof, so I told myself to relax. We followed the bracket into the building.
There was a small entry hall and then a long passage with a wood floor that acted like a drum to our footsteps. I heard loud and fast music vibrating through the right hand wall, mixed in with the thrum of conversation, clinking glassware, and laughter. We passed by a closed double door that led to the fun and went on to the back of the building, stopping outside another door. Our bracket said he could let Escott in, but he’d have to search me. If it would speed things along, I had no objections and held my arms out. He was efficient and had the quick, light touch of a pickpocket, which might have been his usual occupation when he wasn’t pulling guard duty. He found my pencil, notebook, and wallet and nothing more lethal in my pockets than some change. He tapped my shoe heels, checked my hat, decided everything was harmless, and opened the door and stepped to one side.
It was a big room, furnished with sofas, overstuffed chairs, and low tables. One of the tables was really a fancy model of radio that cost more than I’d made in a year. It was playing softly, just loud enough to mask off the sounds coming from the nightclub. At the far end of the room was a small bar near a long dining table where a man was seated alone, eating what appeared to be his dessert. As we came in he tapped a napkin to his lips and turned to look at us.
His skin was sooty black, his hair cut close to the scalp with a short beard edging his jawline and elaborately trimming the mouth and chin. Dressed in light brown with a deep red silk shirt and tie, he looked almost foppish, but was easily getting away with it. He stood up, a big man and not one you could ignore.
Escott spoke first and in a voice rather louder than required to carry across the room. His tone was a mixture of anger and pity. “O thou Othello, that wert once so good/ Fall’n in the practice of a damned slave/ What shall be said to thee?”
Our host was still for a moment, staring at Escott, whom I was sure had need of a straitjacket and gag, then he responded in a rich voice: “Why anything / An honourable murderer if you will/ For naught I did in hate, but all in honour.” Then he barked out a short, delighted laugh and came over to wring Escott’s outstretched hand. Both men were grinning.
“Charles, you s.o.b., what do you mean showing up like this with the derby? You could have mentioned your name to the boys! How the hell are you?”
“I am in good health and only wanted to see if it still worked. I would have called, but you’d moved and left no forwarding number or address I could acquire.”
“Then it’s your own fault. You should have come around more often. You gave my men a start with that hat routine.”
“As I had intended—it keeps them on their toes.”
“Well, it doesn’t go with the suit, so dump it. Have you eaten yet? Dessert then; we’ve still got some pie and coffee.”
“That would be fine, but please allow me to make some introductions. This is a friend of mine, Jac
k Fleming. Jack, you have the honor of meeting the best Othello I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with; Shoe Coldfield.”
Coldfield stuck out his hand. “Any friend of Charles—and that’s short for Shoe Box. I got no bones to pick on how I started out. Just watch my smoke, I’m going to be mayor of this town someday.”
“Really now, you can do better than that,” Escott said dryly.
“All right, governor then, but only if they raise the pay. How did you find the place?”
“We saw Cal, or rather he saw us.”
“Smart kid, that.”
“He’s grown.”
“He’s eating regular.”
We sat down at the table and coffee was brought in by a kid in a busboy jacket who was also doing duty in the nightclub. Through the walls I could still hear music, which made an uneasy counterpoint with the radio.
“What brings you here, Charles? Working on a revival?”
“I heartily wish. Should I return to the boards, you will certainly be the first to know. In truth, I need a favor.”
“These days who doesn’t? What’s on your mind?”
“I’m working on a little problem for Mr. Fleming, and since yesterday, for myself, in which Frank Paco is involved.”
Our host sobered up, taking a cautious tone. “Just how involved is he?”
“Yesterday two of his men tried to kill me, and were it not for Mr. Fleming’s timely intervention, they would certainly have succeeded. He survived an attempt on his life only last week from the same source and has been laying low ever since.”
“Can’t say as I blame you. What do you need? Smuggling out of town?”
“Nothing quite so drastic. Let me apprise you of the whole situation.” Escott told him the basic truth, but said that I sought him out and wisely omitted all the facts concerning my condition.
“. . . so until Mr. Fleming knows what occurred during those missing four days he will always have this rather nasty problem.”
“How do you think I can help? He needs a head-doctor.”
“I was hoping you could help us get into Paco’s house.”
Coldfield shut right up, from sheer disbelief I suppose, since I was feeling the same way. “My mistake,” he finally said. “You are the one who wants a head-doctor.”
“Shoe, I am quite serious.”
“If Paco is after you, you oughta be. Why get into his place?”
“For a good look around and to find out what he’s up to.”
“Hell, I can do that from here. What you want to know?”
“Some information on International Freshwater Transport might be useful.”
“It’s just his smuggling operation, everyone knows that.”
“But what does he smuggle?”
“It used to be booze and he still brings in some of the fancy foreign stuff. If the price is right he’ll take most anything, including people in or out of the country. Lately it’s been machine parts and chemicals coming in.”
“Is it possible to find out whom they go to and for what purpose?”
“I can try tomorrow, but can’t guarantee anything. I generally keep my people away from his territory. I suppose you want specific names for the chemicals, p’fesser?”
“It could help identify what he’s up to, but please do not expose your people to undue risk. Yesterday I only made casual inquiries and his reaction was most violent.”
“Don’t worry. You gonna put him out of business?”
“That would be nice.”
“Yeah, we can dream, but he’s got friends. Word has it he’s been dealing with Slick Morelli out of New York.”
“Is that name familiar to you?” Escott asked me.
“Sure, he’s a big nightclub owner there, ran a lot of speaks, then fancied them up into top spots after Repeal. He sold a few and concentrated on one or two of the biggest. He always had the best acts and the prettiest girls. Of course, this is only what I’ve heard, I never had the chance to take a look.” Or the money, I silently added.
“He hasn’t changed much,” said Coldfield. “He’s done the same thing for one of the biggest clubs in town up on the northside; he’s got a half-interest in it.”
“The Nightcrawler?” asked Escott.
“Yeah, maybe he likes fishin’ or something.”
“Does he own a yacht?”
He nodded. “A nice one, too, if you can have any other kind. The Elvira.”
I stirred in my chair at the mention of a ship.
Escott noticed, but continued. “Who is the other owner of the club?”
“A fat guy named Lucky Lebredo. He oversees the gambling there.”
Escott glanced at me. I thought about the name, then shook my head. He turned back to Coldfield. “Do you know of any connection between Paco and Morelli?”
He shrugged. “If there is, it’s probably money. Paco likes to spread it around and always needs more, Morelli keeps his in a mattress and the Good Lord help you if you borrow from him. He takes his loan interest right out of your hide.”
“Do you think Lebredo is involved with them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not, all he seems to do is gamble. He’s got an adding machine for a brain, and a deck of cards is just another part of his body.” He paused. Escott was looking at something we couldn’t see, hovering just over the table centerpiece. We waited him out in silence until his eyes blinked a few times.
“You back?” Coldfield asked casually.
“Yes, just thinking, but I need more information.”
“Then you’re still serious ’bout going in?”
“Very serious.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Have you read the social columns?”
“Never miss ’em,” he said with a trace of sarcasm.
“Then you may have noticed Frank Paco is hosting a reception at his estate this Friday. The place is going to be filled with politicians, hangers-on, and the man Paco plans to support in the next gubernatorial election.”
“Yes . . .”
“The whole thing is certainly going to be catered.”
Coldfield thought it out and smiled. “You mean you can cook, too?”
“No, but I can pass as a waiter.”
“Not on this one you can’t. You know damn well one of my joints is doing the food and service, and face it, Charles, you’re just too white for this job.”
“Then I can work as a white waiter.”
“And stand out like a sore thumb. No sir, Paco likes his staff well done. Besides, what white man would be working for me? Whites work for white caterers, and once in a while they take on a colored kid ’cause he works cheap, but it just isn’t done the other way around.”
Escott’s pride had been piqued. “Am I or am I not a character actor?”
“The best, but no blackface makeup is going to pass a close look, and your nose is all wrong, anyway. If you were me, would you want to take the chance?”
“I agree,” I said. “Paco might know your face, Georgie could be out on bail by now, and if either of ’em spots you, you’re scragged and so are the caterers.”
Escott’s eyes snapped at me a second, then he visibly calmed and shrugged it off. “Of course, you’re both right. We’ll have to think of something else. Perhaps I could get hold of an invitation or forge one.”
“Not easy, they check ’em against their guest list. You’d have to be in someone else’s party to sneak past, and then you still have your face to consider. Look, why does it have to be this Friday? Try some other night when Paco is gone and just break in. I can stick one of my boys on the catering staff to case the place for you.”
“That is most kind.”
“Great, anything to save your ass. Listen, how ’bout we all have dinner tomorrow night, right here.”
“Dinner, yes, but it’s on me—to make up for too long an absence. Hall-man’s, I think.”
“You’re joking, Charles. I couldn’t get past the door.”
“You most certainly will if it’s my party. If you plan to run for governor you’ll have to get used to breaking open some doors.”
“When I do that, the cops get nervous.”
“And well they should. Eight o’clock?”
“That’s early for me, but I’ll be there, and will try to have some dope on the warehouse from my boys.”
“Please advise them to use all caution; that thump on the head I got was nearly fatal.”
“Your skull is too thick. I heard something was fatal to Paco’s chief gun, Sanderson. They found him in a trunk the other day. That anything to do with your problem? The papers are saying Georgie Reamer hit him with a sledgehammer.” He was looking at me with interest.
I was careful not to look at Escott for a clue. How much Coldfield knew or guessed about last night would be my affair. I shrugged. “Hey, I used to be a reporter—don’t believe everything you read.”
We left without hindrance from Coldfield’s men, one of them even nodded and smiled as we went out to the untouched Nash. I gave the keys back to Escott and we got in. The watching faces were still around, but were not as interested in us as before. Word must have been passed that we were welcome in the neighborhood.
“He’s some guy,” I commented.
“Yes, I met him in Canada when we were both young and hungry. I was already in an acting company when he walked into the theater with his shoe-shine box and asked for work. We got to be friends and with a great deal of argument, persuaded the manager to hire him on permanently. He worked at moving scenery and in wardrobe at half-salary. Occasionally, I’d do him up in white-face so he could carry a spear in the background when we were short of players, but he was being wasted. If you could have seen us in Hamlet as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; he nearly sweated his makeup off and gave the game away. At least it showed the other actors in the company that he was more than capable, but our manager was a pigheaded old reprobate. He refused to even consider Shoe for the obvious part of Othello.”
“But he did play it?”
“Oh, yes, but it was a bit of a challenge for me to arrange it. The one thing I did manage was getting him the part of understudy to the lead. The manager allowed that much.”