“Oops,” he said, startled. Milt was holding a small wicked looking gun in one hand, just bringing it up to shoot, so Lou grabbed his neck tie, curled it around his forearm and fell down. Milt fought for balance, lost it and crashed to the sidewalk like a dead tree. His chin hit the running board of a car and the gun skittered across the concrete with a faint scratching noise. A foot stomped down toward Lou’s hand.
He moved it without thought and rolled into the gutter, under a Packard and out the other side. Took two steps and a sixth guy hit him with a roundhouse that nearly broke his jaw. He rolled back against the Packard as the mob gathered.
“Okay,” Lou said. “I’ll come with you.”
*
When Cassidy saw the huge crowd appear—one minute she was talking baseball with a new friend, then the entire crime syndicate of Chicago was all over them—she felt a strong desire to scream.
Though Lou seemed calm enough. She felt his hand on her elbow—just like dancing, except for the threat—and let herself be guided behind him. It was like he was trying to protect her, which was sweet, it really was, but not against these guys. The brick scraped against her skirt and she realized there was nowhere else to go. Also, that her skirt was getting dirty.
Lou said brightly, “Millie,” which puzzled her a lot and things got crazy. Lou said, “Let her go,” and they laughed—what did he expect? But he moved forward and things got really fast. The hulks jerked back in surprise and there was a hole where there wasn’t one before and Lou shoved her through it.
She heard him say, “thank you,” in a very polite voice.
She ran to the corner and looked back, expecting to see a mound of bodies crashing down on Lou Fleener. Poor Lou. A sob formed in her throat as she thought about how she had pre-judged him. Too short, too pudgy, she’d been about to place him in that forgettable place in a woman’s heart. Friend. Available to a woman if there wasn’t anything better to do. And now he was going to die.
She couldn’t watch. She leaned against the wall—screw the skirt, it was already dirty—and stared.
The street was dark and she couldn’t make out details, but it didn’t look right. For one thing, it wasn’t over. How could five of them not destroy little Lou Fleener in less than a second or two? She remembered a Rodeo back in Rawlins—she hated rodeos, but where else are you going to go in Rawlins? —where a man rode the back of a bucking bull. He stayed on for about 6 seconds, which seemed like an eternity to be on a bull. This should have been like that. The suits should have moved in and Lou should have gone down and Cassidy would be free to mourn him.
Except...the suits were jumping around like they were stung by bees. They swung wildly, they howled and twisted and the whole group just heaved with activity, but none of it seemed purposeful. She saw Lou appear in the mob, then vanish as if he was bobbing on rough seas. She saw the flash of light from a shiny hubcap and heard the clang as a meaty fist hit it. Oh, she thought, that had to hurt.
One guy went down and Lou used the hubcap like a hammer—clang, clang, clang, clang! —on the guy’s head until someone else tried to grab him. The sound ricocheted off the walls and echoed hauntingly.
She was absolutely transfixed. There was Lou again, snapping a rag like the jocks used to do at Rawlins High school. One pulled a gun and Cassidy screamed but Lou grabbed his tie and pulled him over.
Lou fell, hitting the ground but he rolled under a car and came out the other side. Another guy hit him and Lou staggered. This was it, Cassidy thought, now they’re going to kill him. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched. Already he was rising in her estimation, from stranger to potentially more.
“Oh, Lou,” she whispered tragically while they moved in. Through a gap under an armpit she heard him say, “Okay, I’ll come with you.”
They all sort of stopped and milled around, like the cows at that stupid rodeo until they gathered their wits and escorted Lou to a car. Just before he got in he looked her way and smiled.
Relief overwhelmed her for an entire moment before she got angrier than she’d ever been in her whole life. How dare he scare her like that? How dare he? She saw the hubcap, shiny and forgotten and had one last thought before turning away to find an El station. If he was here, she thought, she’d hit him with it.
Chapter 5
Good of you to stop by
Seeing Lou Fleener escorted up into his study, surrounded by the six musclemen sent to retrieve him did not fill Duke Braddock with confidence. This was his champion? Dwarfed by the body builders—he barely came up to their necks—this just couldn’t be the resourceful man he wanted. Could he?
Fleener looked unruffled, unlike his captors.
Braddock noted several makeshift bandages, bruises and one noticeable limp, but Lou Fleener walked into his home unmarked and calm. Still, Braddock felt a deep sense that he’d chosen the wrong man.
He had to be sure, there was too much was at stake. He straightened, like an actor preparing his entrance, and stepped forward to meet the group.
His men parted and Braddock was face to face with Lou Fleener. Again, the doubt. He certainly didn’t look like anyone formidable enough to play the part he was assigned.
Milt whispered, Braddock listened and leaned back to look at him skeptically. “All of you?” and Milt, looking sheepish, nodded.
All? Hmmm. Braddock looked again but Fleener hadn’t grown. He was still dressed in a cheap suit. Short, thin haired, overweight, how could this man possibly have done what Milt said?
Doubts absolutely running wild, Braddock said, “Mr. Fleener,” cordially, as if he was the host of one of Hef’s parties. “So good of you to come.”
“Thank you,” Fleener gave a skeptical look at the guards—good of you to come? —and accepted Braddock’s handshake. “So glad I could make it.”
“I trust you had no difficulty coming here.”
“Less than they did.” Lou was confused and watchful. This was the world class gangster responsible for more deaths, according to the Tribune, than “Scarface” Al Capone. He looked around.
The study contained enough books to make a librarian envious, towering oak bookcases with a rolling ladder and an actual globe of the world. There were two plush leather couches, three red leather high back chairs with brass studs, a desk seemingly made from the landing deck of an aircraft carrier—Rhode Island was smaller—and a fireplace just perfect for burning those books.
Lou’s reading was limited to sports and Mickey Spillane. He was fairly certain, he wouldn’t find either on those shelves.
The west wall was all window looking out at a darkness that suggested the nearest neighbor was in Skokie. Burning logs provided a warm glow, making the room as cozy as a den in Wrigley Field.
The whole effect was staged to make an effect and Lou was impressed. He felt the desire to genuflect.
“I’m sorry for my method of bringing you here,” said Braddock. He settled himself into one of the red chairs, gesturing Lou to sit in one opposite. He lit a cigar, probably Cuban, and looked concerned. “A drink, Mr. Fleener? Brandy? Scotch?”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps a cigar?”
“No.” What was with this guy? Lou smiled, amused. He took out his pack of Pall Malls and lit one. “But I’d like to know why I’m here.”
“Of course.” Braddock frowned and mouthed from the cigar, like a baby sucking tit, a disgusting sight. The end flared and gaseous fumes filled the room with the smell of cherry and ash. The mob shuffled into the background, lost in the shadows.
“I asked you here to ask for your assistance in a small matter.”
“No.”
Braddock blinked as if slapped. “I beg your pardon?”
“No. I won’t work for you.”
“Before you hear my proposition?”
“Yep. You’re a crook.” Lou gestured around the room. “A successful crook, I grant you, but still a crook. I won’t work for you.”
Braddock tightened his
lips around the cigar and veins bulged beneath his jacket. A desire to hit the pudgy little man held him as he paused to sip his brandy. The old habits, the ones that led to people with concrete boxes breathing water at the bottom of Lake Michigan came back. True, he always regretted those rash moments later, but they were satisfying at the time, like scratching an itch. Still... he needed Fleener for his project. Slowly he allowed his features to relax, his breathing to slow.
Watching, eyes laughing, Fleener said, “Careful; you’ll get a stroke.”
“Maybe you’re not the right man for the job.”
“Undoubtedly.” Lou agreed, watching Braddock with interest. The bulging veins, the red face; a titanic struggle was taking place. The desire to kill was balanced by the equal desire to be obeyed. Kings in ancient days had solved this dilemma with torture; Lou wondered what Braddock would do.
Braddock did patience. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
Braddock gestured at the gloom. “How did you fight them?”
Lou shrugged. “I dunno. How do you afford all this?”
“Seriously. You are more capable than you appear.”
“Drug money?” Lou suggested. “Prostitution? How many whores does it take to buy yourself clean?”
“You’re baiting me,” Braddock said, more confused now than angry. Why was this man doing this? What did he hope to accomplish? Braddock looked around for assurance. Six large armed men huddled in the background. What was Fleener doing?
“Perhaps a test,” Braddock said finally.
“Nah.” Lou sat relaxed in the chair.
“Uh, Mr. Braddock?” Milt had emerged from the dimness to stand behind the chair. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Listen to him,” Lou suggested. “It’s really not a good idea.”
“You are a very difficult man, Mr. Fleener.”
“You have no idea.”
“Do you really think you can refuse me?”
“You bet.” Lou glanced around and spotted a long-handled pan next to the fireplace. He went over and picked it up, rolling it in his fingers. The handle was a smooth black wood, about three feet long, and the pan end had a hinged cover. “What is this?” he asked.
“It’s an ash collector.” Braddock sounded impatient. “For cleaning out the fireplace.”
“Hmmm.” Lou clicked open the lid. “It doesn’t look very ashy.”
“It’s decorative,” snapped Braddock. “Do you really think you can walk out of here without obeying me?”
Lou walked back toward his chair. “Well,” he said softly, “yes.” He swung the pan in a short arc, hitting Braddock solidly on the side of the face. The pan clanged, Braddock rose half out of his chair and fell back unconscious. Almost casually, Lou spun the pan up and around and down on Milt’s head. The man went down like a pole axed ox.
Flinching at the sound, Lou said a quick, “Sorry,” and dashed across the room. Three steps and he was among the other guards, spreading chaos. The pan arced and a revolver slammed to the carpet. Lou tossed the utensil at the guards and dove for the gun, coming up with it as they neared him.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he said, clicking back the hammer for emphasis. The guards stopped. Lou got up and checked on Braddock, keeping the gun carefully pointed. His host was breathing, which Lou considered a mixed blessing. He glanced at Milt, sprawled on the floor and sighed. Another bruise from an encounter with Lou Fleener. He wondered if the big guy would ever live it down.
“Well, I’m leaving you now.” He backed to the door but hesitated. Was that something moving? A shadow of doubt struck him and he peered down the hallway. Nothing, but he was convinced. Someone had been there, watching.
Shaking his head, he glanced back. The guards huddled behind their boss, no doubt worried about his reaction. Lou felt a moment of regret—how would they explain this? —then he smiled and left the building.
He found the keys to a Packard in the visor and drove it to a nearby El station, leaving it at a hydrant for the police to find, but he kept the gun as a souvenir of his meeting with the famous Duke Braddock.
He couldn’t wait to hear what Monk would say.
*
The next morning, showered, shaved and feeling well pleased with life, Lou Fleener strutted to the Addison El station. How often, he wondered, stopping to pick up a Tribune from a kiosk, did one get a chance to cold cock a gangster? Maybe tomorrow would bring retribution and trouble, but today the world was sunny and bright. He opened the paper to the sports page and the world got even better; with Don Elston’s pitching the Cubs had picked up a double header over Milwaukee. This, he decided, was what heaven was cracked up to be.
He thought about Cassidy as the train lumbered over the backyards of weathered brownstones. Would she see him again? He hoped so. He couldn’t remember ever meeting a woman like her.
Chapter 6
Along. With me. You gotta come.
At 9:00, the bell above the door rang and a customer entered, the first of the day. A large man wearing a blue serge suit and a hat ambled to the counter.
“Are you...?” He frowned, looked vague, patted his pocket and took out a small piece of paper. Reading he finished, “Dion Monkton?”
Monk set his cards down. “Yes. May I help you?”
“You gotta come with me.”
“What?”
“Along. With me. You gotta come,” the man clarified. He reached out an arm and swept the cards to the floor.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Monk slid off his stool to face the stranger, realizing how much bigger the guy looked close up.
Especially with the gun in his fist. “You gotta come with me,” he said.
Monk considered fighting for a split second, but he wasn’t Lou Fleener. He considered arguing but the man looked firm. He considered running, throwing books, yelling “fire!”, faking a heart attack, calling on a guard dog—he didn’t have one, always meant to get one, but time just seemed to slip away—or pulling out a shotgun, but he didn’t have one of those either.
So instead he said, “Oh. All right,” and followed the man out of the store.
An exit at LaSalle and an eight-block walk to Clark Street, striding the sidewalk as if he owned the whole city; Lou paused at the door of the Clark Street Used Book Store and frowned at the closed sign. Closed? He looked at his watch. 9:30. Where was Monk? How could it be closed? Bursting with the desire to spread gossip—and what great gossip it was! —he tried the door twice.
*
Duke Braddock sat in a chair facing a chessboard.
Malcolm Warburton sat across from him studying the board. Hesitantly he touched a rook, lifted his hand, caressed a bishop, moved a pawn forward one square.
“Ah,” said Braddock, “the King’s gambit.”
Warburton said, “Is it?”
“From a grand master in India in the eighteenth century,” lectured Braddock, the reformed thug. He casually moved a piece—Warburton didn’t see which one, didn’t care—and sipped brandy. Milt Stiltmeyer, in a neat blue suit and a bandaged head, escorted a wary looking movie star into the study.
“Here he is, Mr. Braddock,” said Milt, herding his prize before him like an oversized sheepdog.
“Excellent.” Braddock turned from the game and rose to greet his guest. “Mr. Monkton?”
“Yes,” agreed Monk slowly. He was amazed to find himself in the very well-appointed study of a major mobster. His eyes fell to the chessboard.
Braddock said, “Do you play?” and Monk nodded, his mind still fuzzy and confused. Why was he here?
“Move aside, Malcolm,” Braddock demanded.
Monk noted how quickly the man obeyed, which in turn told him a lot about Braddock. He took the empty seat and Braddock sat across from him, watching the board and Monk with sharp intensity.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About this?” Monk said. He studied the board before adding, “Or about being kidnapped?”
“I do apologize for that. Believe me, if I had any choice I wouldn’t have resorted to such drastic means. I have a situation which needs your assistance.”
“My assistance? My assistance? You have this... creature bring me—ow—” Milt was pushing his thumbs down into Monk’s shoulder, it felt as if a railroad spike was being driven in. Monk sank deeper into the chair.
“Milt! Stop it.” The pressure stopped and Monk shrugged to get some feeling back. He twisted to glare at the man hovering above him. His head gestured at the bandage. “That Lou’s work?” he smiled nastily and the guy made a sort of growling noise in his throat. Satisfied, Monk turned back to the board.
“Queen’s Bishop to Queen five. What help could I possibly give to you, Mr. Braddock?”
“Please, call me Ben.”
Monk stared at him. “I don’t think so. I looked you up last night after your little trick with my friend Lou. You’re a first-rate hood, Mr. Braddock. You’re a thief and a pimp and a drug peddler. You’re responsible for more deaths than anyone can even guess and even more violence on top of that. Why would I do anything for you?”
To his surprise, Braddock didn’t get angry. He studied Monk for a moment, looked at the board and pushed a Knight forward to block Monk’s Bishop. “I am all of those things, Mr. Monkton. I admit it. And under normal circumstances I would neither request your help or allow you to talk to me like that. But these are not normal circumstances.”
“I don’t care. I won’t help you.” Monk began to rise from the chair.
“My daughter has been kidnapped,” Braddock said softly.
Monk stopped, half stooped. He settled back into the soft leather. “What?
“My daughter Amanda has been taken from me.”
Missing Amanda Page 4