“Braddock,” agreed Lou. They were eating a late lunch at a corner booth at the Billy Goat Tavern at lower Michigan by the river. The Billy Goats was a newspaperman’s hangout and a bunch of reporters from the Trib were making noise at the bar. The place was old time, with dark wood crown moldings somewhere up there in the haze. If it weren’t for political connections, the place would have been closed years before it ever opened.
Mickey scratched a kitchen match on the scarred table and fired up a cigar. Acrid blue smoke surrounded him and he looked like an acned Satan until he coughed and ruined the image.
Lou laughed. “Still getting those expensive imported cigars?”
“Screw you, Fleener. These cost two bits for ten.”
“Two bits. Big spender.”
But Mickey seemed more interested in another subject. “Braddock, man. I don’t know. He’s about as big as this town gets anymore.”
“I know. He’s very hot stuff.” Lou read the papers: Duke Braddock arrested for drugs, for prostitution, for arson, assault. Probably murder and bad breath. But he’d walked away on every count every time, the result of great attorneys or big money. Or both.
“He lives in Evanston?” Lou asked. “Where the old money hangs out?”
Mickey laughed. “Sure. He’s gone uptown for sure.”
Lou thought about old money and new money. He didn’t have either but he picked up the tab for the beers with the last two singles in his wallet, still wondering what Duke Braddock could want with him.
Chapter 2
Big Plans for the new Mayor
“I have a dream,” said Duke Braddock almost exactly eight years before Martin Luther King. He fiddled with the thick glass, inhaling the sweet aroma of bourbon. He watched the patient reaction of his audience and savored the moment. He nodded his head wisely and began to speak.
“Ben?” A small voice piped his name like a timid piccolo player and the somber mood ended abruptly.
“What?” Braddock gazed without favor at the woman of hunched posture who stood hesitantly in the doorway, his wife of seventeen years. She wore a neat blue dress with a single strand of pearls. Her hair was perfectly done, her makeup flawless. Another woman would have been elegant. Adele Braddock merely looked terrified.
“The television,” she began hesitantly, “isn’t...”
“Isn’t what?” His expression would have frozen water.
“Wuh, wuh,” she said, shaking like wind chimes in a hurricane, “wur...”
“Wuh, wuh,” he mimicked nastily. Braddock turned to pose for the man lounging on the leather sofa, body language exactly like a frat boy taunting an inferior before an adoring crowd of toadies.
This particular toad was Malcolm Warburton, scheduled to be the next mayor of Chicago if Duke Braddock’s plans worked properly. And, why wouldn’t they? Braddock wasn’t a common thug; he was a king maker.
Warburton was a cross between a well-dressed teamster and an upper crust British pimp. He wore tweeds despite the heat, a blond mustache that blended into his face as if it was dried soup, and oily hair parted down the center. He grinned appreciatively, happy to be included in the hazing.
“Working,” Adele managed. She waited with the posture of a sinner before a priest, hoping for mercy but not expecting it.
Duke Braddock—the king maker—wore a red satin smoking jacket that made him look, in his opinion, like Hugh Hefner of Playboy magazine, a sophisticated playboy. And he could be that Hef, he thought, if not for Adele.
Adele, who was still standing in the doorway on one foot as if electricity was holding her in place. He closed his eyes, counted to ten and opened them again. He pursed his lips and sipped at his bourbon. Damn her. As his second wife, she was supposed to be everything she was not. Thin, athletic, inventive in bed, appreciative of his every word; instead she was overweight and drank too much and watched that damned new Television set at all hours. And she wasn’t interested in anything he had to say.
Damn. Tired of her-he said harshly, “Get someone in to fix it.”
“Who should I call? You don’t want people here.”
Her voice, once honey when she spoke his name passionately—a very long time ago—was now a mousy squeak.
“Anyone. Why would I care?”
“But, you said...”
He wanted to hit her. He wanted to shake her and get away from her endless whining, but not in front of company. Mastering himself he said, “Just call someone.”
“But who?”
Rage seized Braddock, anger so great that only a dozen men had ever seen it. All of those were dead. “Get out!” Glass shattered as he hurled it against the wall, leaving a brown stain drooling to the floor. Adele screeched once, a high-pitched sound that went through him like a dental drill, and fled the room.
Braddock stood stiffly for several moments, breathing hard. Finally, to Malcolm Warburton he said, “My wife,” and shrugged eloquently.
Warburton smirked into his glass, pleased to witness another man’s weakness. He had a habit of holding his drink in front of his lips and looking out over the rim. “Hard to find good help these days,” he said.
Braddock smiled, tension broken. Good help, he mused, hard to find. He remembered her when she was his secretary, cheating on his first wife. ‘What a little pistol she’d been.
Into the silence a fat white Persian cat with a red collar strode importantly into the room and began to rub his chin against Braddock’s ankle. Braddock smiled. He liked the cat.
“Where were we?” he asked.
“The mayor’s office,” said Malcolm. His teeth were magnified behind the glass until he looked like a large hungry rat. Which, in truth, he was.
“The mayor’s office,” agreed Braddock. “We’re going to put you in it.”
“I like the sound of that,” Warburton purred.
Of course, you do, thought Braddock. Rising to District Attorney in a town as large and political as Chicago required connections and Warburton had proven his worth to the political machine. He convicted when—and who—he was told, and dismissed charges as readily. The perfect political hit man. But becoming mayor took even greater connections. Duke Braddock, with his illegal wealth and legal facade was the perfect man to supply them.
Malcolm Warburton’s handlers had approached Braddock last winter, just before Christmas, proposing a partnership. “You wash our hands,” they had said, “and we’ll wash yours.” Certain federal indictments could be made to disappear, they suggested during meetings in dark restaurants or smoky back rooms. “You scratch our back—”
A chance to make the next mayor of the second largest city in the country? Were they kidding? When the shady political string pullers introduced him to Warburton, a man he’d evaded in courtrooms for years, Braddock realized far more than the plotters could possibly imagine.
He made his own plans. He set wheels in motion and events careening. He smiled as he obeyed his political masters and they in turn believed him to be what he appeared; a cheap thug out for legitimacy. When the time came, Braddock thought, they’d underestimate him once too often.
But it wouldn’t do to explain all of this to the well-dressed worm on the couch. He said, “We’ve already had several incidents.”
“Sure,” agreed Warburton, teeth gleaming. “But how does this help me?”
Braddock sighed. The man was truly dense. Years of obeying orders had made him as visionary as any stooge, simply unable to conceive of anything beyond his own shallow sight. Patiently, like a weary teacher, Braddock explained. “We hire private investigators to do certain tasks. These tasks get misinterpreted by my... rivals, shall we say? These rivals respond in predictable ways and fairly soon we have a rise in crime.”
“And I’m the anti-crime candidate.” Warburton grinned like the idiot he was, as happy as a child with a puppy.
“Exactly,” said Braddock. “We control the rise in violence, much the way a chef controls the heat in his kitchen.” Braddock was
proud of the analogy, which he’d thought of himself. “When the police and the newspapers and the public can’t stand any more, they reject Daley and the party machine and elect you. Shortly afterward the violence dies down.”
“Leaving me to be the mayor.”
He really believes this is about him, Braddock marveled. Or maybe he doesn’t care that he’s a puppet. “You’ll be the mayor.”
“Mayor Warburton,” said the fool. “I like it.” He frowned as a rare thought occurred. “Didn’t the last guy we hired get killed?”
“The price we pay,” agreed Braddock, making Warburton grin like a chipmunk.
“So,” he said, “who do we hire next?”
“A small timer named Fleener.” Braddock said. “Lou Fleener. I’ve got the perfect thing for him.”
Warburton, foolishly sure of himself as a co- conspirator, laughed behind his glass. “You’re such an evil man, Benjamin. Such a thoroughly evil man.”
You have no idea, Braddock thought. No idea at all.
Chapter 3
I gave him sufficient reason not to
Dion Elygious Monkton—Monk to his friends, of whom he had one—sat at the front counter of the Clark Street Used Book Store playing solitaire and reading the early edition of the Chicago Tribune.
The Clark Street book store was on Wabash, three doors south of Chicago Avenue. He’d bought the store three years before from a guy named Clark Streep, the irony appealing greatly to his slightly warped sense of humor. The Ace of spades eluded his shuffling and the Trib’s headline was about the mayoral election.
Richard Daley, son of the Democratic political machine, was endorsed by Colonel McCormack himself—see editorial page three—while newcomer Malcolm Warburton had the blessing of Chicago’s very powerful Teamsters union.
President Eisenhower was ignoring Vice President Nixon again and, according to the Tribune—see editorial page five—everything else as well. The economy was faltering, the Communists had a lead in the space race, war was on the brink everywhere and the stock market was down to two thousand. All of it the fault of the Republicans.
In sports, the Cubs and the White Sox were neck and neck in their respective divisions, giving bookmakers wet dreams of a possible “El Series” game; an inner-city playoff.
On page six of the neighborhood section he came across a small article that caught his attention for personal reasons. He thought of Lou and wondered what his friend would think of it.
Private Investigator Reported Missing.
Paul Edward Smalls, a licensed private investigator, was reported missing by his secretary Velma Wilcox. According to police reports, Mr. Smalls has not been seen for three weeks. Miss Wilcox stated that she didn’t know what he was working on or if his disappearance was related to any case. The police have no leads and ask the public for any information. This is the fifth case of a private investigator gone missing in the last six months. An unnamed police source said, “There is no connection that we are able to determine at this time.”
Five of them, Monk thought; how strange. He considered this a statistical anomaly and wondered what the odds were of five people in a particular trade in a geometrically small area vanishing without a trace. This being the sort of question that kept him up nights, he pulled the yellow pages out from under the counter and checked. There were nine listings under “Private Investigator” including Lou Fleener. Three of them had box ads and Paul E. Smalls read, ‘Paul Edward Smalls Investigations—licensed and confidential. Big results—Smalls Prices.’
“Ugh,” he said. He wondered which of the other ads were for missing men and how five out of nine could be ignored by the police as mere co-incidence. He made a note to talk about it with Lou.
The bell over the door clanked and Lou Fleener walked in, looking pleased. Monk set down the paper. “You gotta hear who I just met,” Lou said. Without waiting he finished, “Milt Stiltmeyer,” and waited for the reaction.
Which wasn’t happening. Monk looked blank. The store was empty, the air still and quiet. Lou’s big surprise fell flat. “Milt the Stilt? Millie the killer? Jeez, Monk; don’t you read the stuff you make me study? He’s a gangster.”
Monk looked flustered. “I don’t remember everything,” he said sullenly. He gathered up the cards to buy time to think, sorting and shuffling with long delicate fingers. He dealt them out while Lou waited patiently, used to this ritual. Finally, not looking up, Monk said, “I don’t recall the name.”
“He’s a muscle guy. Works the north side for a big hitter named Duke Braddock.”
That got him. “Braddock? I know that name. He’s a killer.”
“Yep,” Lou agreed.
Monk was tall and well-proportioned with thick black hair, a pencil thin mustache, a nice suit, blue eyes and a smile that made women swoon. Lou was short and balding and his suit got wrinkled just by looking it. Standing next to each other they looked like Mutt and Jeff if Jeff looked like Clark Gable in a Hollywood romantic movie, the kind where Myrna Loy wore white gowns and had lots of servants.
And Mutt looked like Lou.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted me to go see his boss.”
“You absolutely cannot do it,” Monk said with authority. He said everything with authority. Monk could get a Coney dog at the ball park like nobody’s business.
“Do what?” asked Lou, feeling very pleased with life. First the brown suited thug and some playful exercise, now a chance to tease Monk. Wonderful.
“Work for Duke Braddock. The man’s a pestilence.”
“Pestilence,” Lou said, impressed. In general, he caught about every third word Monk said, getting the gist if not the flavor of the conversation. Pestilence was a new one.
“Duke Braddock. That’s certainly rarified air.”
Monk looked at the door and back again. “But polluted. You cannot work for him.” When agitated Monk tended to drop contractions and sound like a sociology professor.
“OK,” Lou agreed amiably, knowing Monk wouldn’t be able to let it go.
“It’s morally wrong, you know. To work for a man like that.”
“Morally.”
“It’s...it’s,” Monk wasn’t usually at a loss for words, but the situation was unique. How often did a major thug come calling? “Morally disingenuous,” he said at last, pleased with the word.
Lou laughed. Monk had been in love with language since second grade when he’d discovered Webster’s Collegiate dictionary at the library. Anything less than three syllables made him feel inadequate. “Let me guess,” he said. “He insisted. You resisted. Things got broken and he left vowing revenge.”
“More or less. You want some java?” Lou gestured to an aluminum percolator.
“Um, sure.”
Lou poured coffee into a ceramic mug and added two sugars and a lot of cream, handed it to Monk who took it without thanks. “It’s immoral,” he mused aloud. He frowned as if unimpressed with the word. “Improper.” A head shake. “Unseemly. Unprofessional.”
“Life threatening?” Lou suggested. “Dangerous?”
Surprised, Monk said, “Dangerous?”
“He is called Millie the killer. He does work for Duke Braddock.”
“Oh. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” Lou sipped at his coffee. Freshly brewed, brown and weak as tea. Awful. “He won’t be back.”
“Lou, it’s Duke Braddock.”
“I know, and that would upset me a little if I thought he’d make another run at me. But I was pretty persuasive.”
Monk muttered, “photo-eidetic cell retention,” in that annoying professor tone.
“Uh-huh.” Lou knew that was just Monk having to name what he didn’t understand.
Lou Fleener, shortchanged in looks and stature had been born with a surprising physical trait. Some people were good at math, gymnastics, music. Some people painted or counted cards or threw ninety mile-an-hour fast balls. Lou Fleener could fight. He didn’t exerci
se, had never been in a gym. He was potbellied, short and generally slow as molasses on a winter day in Alaska. But if attacked he become shockingly adept at fighting. Everything became a weapon in his hands.
Lou hadn’t lost a fight since the fifth grade when Lenny Pascoulis and several friends tried to make him eat dog shit in an alley coming home from PS 29. Lou had used a piece of garden hose like a whip and a handful of marbles to...well; never mind. Lenny walked funny for a week after that.
Monk said, “What did you do?
“Remember the ashtray we got that time in Cleveland?”
“Sure; you stole it from the room. Oh.” Monk considered the damage Lou Fleener could do with something as heavy as that ashtray. He felt momentarily sorry for Millie the killer. “That’s all you used?”
“That’s all I needed.”
“So, he really won’t be back.”
“I think I gave him sufficient reason not to.”
Monk looked relieved and sipped from his cup.
“Duke Braddock,” he said. “That’s certainly unique company. But you absolutely cannot work for him.”
“I won’t,” said Lou. “Promise.”
Monk eyed him warily, paused to put a red Jack on a black Queen. “Because it wouldn’t be prudent.”
“I said I wouldn’t.”
Chapter 4
If only this guy was that guy
Cassidy Adams looked in her closet and said, “Ugh.” Three skirts, two white blouses and one winter coat with a buckskin fringe looked back as if mocking her.
She stood in the open doorway wearing white cotton bra and panties, sipping from a thick glass that held a lot of bourbon. A fourth skirt, recently removed, lay on the bed behind her, forgotten the minute she threw it there. The fifth was in a basket on the floor waiting for a zipper.
She sipped and she stared and absolutely nothing in her closet looked any better, so she frowned in disgust and accepted what was instead of what should be. What should be of course was a closet full of the rich clothes she saw at the office every day from the dull monotony of the steno pool. The executive secretaries had nice clothes. The constant visitors to the head office of Prudential Casualty and Life had nice clothes, women in black dresses with white gloves, expensive hats over perfect hairdos, wives of presidents and vice presidents, arriving for lunches with pearls and manicures.
Missing Amanda Page 2