Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  “Amanda,” Monk agreed. “That’s necessary.”

  “Is it?” Lou leaned against the bookcases, built in and dividing the living room from the kitchen. He sipped his coffee. “Is it for Amanda? Or for yourself?”

  “Don’t go there.” Monk stared at the cards, refusing to look up.

  “It’s just that, well, with what Inez did, it’s understandable that you’d think of Corrie.”

  “I said don’t go there.”

  Lou waited, growing impatient and annoyed with Monk, who had returned to his endless shuffling and dealing. To his own private misery. Dammit, Lou thought. Sure, it was a shame what she’d done to Monk, and Lou had to admit if he’d lost a daughter he’d maybe be a little crazy too, but, it was all a long time ago. It was over.

  Lou Fleener was quick in his moods, and normally cheerful by nature. Anger was rare but hard when it came and he felt it coming now. “We’re gonna get killed, Monk. And I got a right to know why.”

  Monk dealt cards and didn’t reply.

  “I got a right,” Lou insisted. Agitated into motion he walked across the tiny kitchen and picked up a dishrag, twisting in his cup. “You’re making us run around all halfcocked, you know, and the mob’s all over us like hair on a cat. So, if this is about Corrie...”

  Monk remained motionless. If he heard anything Lou couldn’t tell. There was no motion but the gentle scraping of the cards.

  Lou finished wiping his cup and set it down harder than necessary. “Screw this.” His voice was harsh in his throat as he grabbed his smokes and went outside to stew.

  Monk didn’t follow. Lou paced around the little yard, remembering games they’d played here at Monk’s Mom’s house. Eventually he wandered away down the alley. There was a tiny cement castle in the backyard by the trash burner that he had so coveted when he was ten. He passed P.S. 29 where he and Monk had done grade school together. He walked all the way to Hanson’s grocery at the corner of 56th and bought a loaf of bread and some cold cuts. A couple more blocks and he passed the Sit-Down Bar, a local hangout.

  For a minute, he stood at the door, thinking about going in. The afternoon was a blast furnace and a beer would taste great. He could feel the glass in his hand, see the ritual of pouring, the bubbles forming a head, the moisture condensing down the side...Crap. He turned away with a savage jerk. This wasn’t the way. It wasn’t ever the way. He turned around and walked back to Monk’s.

  “We gotta leave here,” he said as the screen slammed shut. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he saw Monk at the table, a knife at his neck in the hand of a big guy. Another hulk was behind him at the sink, getting a glass of water. Together they filled the room.

  Guzman Cermak was perched on one of the chairs, like a freshly pressed canary or an insurance adjuster come to tell you your policy’s expired.

  “Shit,” Lou said, with feeling.

  “Put your bag down.” Cermak’s voice was still small and whiny. Lou wondered how he got to be a mob boss, decided he was better off not knowing. Cermak was probably a lot nastier than he looked, which was not at all a good thing. What had Angel called him? Cermak the surgeon?

  Lou dropped the bag, wondering what to use as a weapon. He had bread and deli meat and a jar of Melman’s mustard. He had his odd skills and he had attitude. This time they didn’t seem enough. Cermak had a hostage and all the advantages.

  “Hey there,” Monk said. His face was flushed and there was a thin line of blood on his chin. The knife was sharp.

  Cermak, speaking to Monk, said, “I’m going to kill you, Mr. Fleener. That is who you are, yes? Louis Fleener, Private Investigator?” The words ‘private investigator’ seemed to amuse him. There was a mocking tone in his voice and the muscle picked up on it, grunting laughter loud in the small room.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Lou said, making his voice shake. No play acting; he was feeling weak in the knees.

  Cermak turned his eyes back to Monk and made the mistake of appearances. “Nonsense. The strong silent one here would be the boss, not the fat delivery boy. Do you know what we’re going to do to you, Mr. Fleener? You and your repulsive companion?”

  Monk picked it up. With fake bravado, he pushed against the knife and snarled, “Do your worst, you sadistic little pimp.” Another trail of blood ripped down his neck, pooling on his white collar.

  Cermak smiled. Delicately, he pulled open his suit jacket and reached inside. He withdrew the thin knife, holding it between two fingers. Close up, it looked like a scalpel, sharp and deadly. Jesus, thought Lou; Cermak the surgeon.

  Amused, Cermak said, “Sadistic is an apt word. I am going to cut you. You will regret your visit to us this morning.”

  “I regret it already, you little freak. Just seeing you is making my skin crawl.”

  “You won’t have skin much longer.” Cermak laughed, an airy high-pitched sound from his nose, like one of those tiny poodles with the funny hair and the bows. Somehow, from him, it was terrifying.

  Monk was trying to get Lou’s attention. His eyes darted to the right, to Lou and back. Lou saw the deck of cards on top of the bookcase that divided the rooms. He nodded and stepped forward.

  “But you don’t have to hurt me, right? I just work for him. He’s the one you want.”

  “Stop right there,” Cermak said. He twisted to see Lou, approaching from behind.

  Lou didn’t stop. “Please,” he begged, “don’t hurt me.”

  “I said stop,” Cermak demanded.

  “Why? You can’t be afraid. You’re the one with all the... cards.” Lou swept up the deck with a quick motion, bent and released them into the face of the guy with the knife. He jerked away in surprise and the knife left Monk’s throat. Lou kicked the chair legs and Monk fell to the floor. He rolled and slid under the table.

  Muscle number two was frozen in surprise and Cermak was wide eyed at the sudden attack. He shrank back on his chair, alarmed at the turn of events. Lou struck the knife guy, shoving him against the table which collapsed. The sound of splintered wood was loud in the kitchen. Monk grabbed the guy amid the rubble, his fingers scratching at the man’s face and eyes.

  Lou spun into the kitchen and grabbed the percolator, swinging it into the face of muscle number two. Hot coffee flew around the room, the guy screeched and Lou turned to Cermak.

  He was cringing in the chair, one hand in front of his little mustache, the other holding the slender blade as if it could protect him. Lou swatted it away and backhanded him savagely across the face, feeling glasses bite into his hand. Cermak fell, ass over teakettle, as Monk’s mother used to say. Lou wondered what she’d think of her pristine kitchen being used this way and the idea made him angry. The world shouldn’t have people like Cermak in it, he thought as he dragged him to his feet. He felt his blood rush to his face as rage overwhelmed him.

  He held Cermak by the back of his collar and ran him against the wall. Cermak hit with his face and teeth broke. He made high pitched noises as Lou pulled him back and rammed him again. On the third run he felt arms pulling at him and heard Monk shouting from somewhere far off. He felt reason return and let go of Cermak who slid to the floor, moaning in a pool of his own blood. Monk kept shaking Lou. Cermak had fainted. The thugs were stirring. Lou decided he should do something about that and selected Mrs. Monkton’s heaviest skillet, a black well-seasoned cast iron one she had used to make pancakes. Holding it like a tennis racket he hit each of the thugs solidly. They went down hard and stopped moving.

  “We’d better leave,” he suggested mildly.

  “You think? What should we do about these guys?”

  “Leave ‘em. We’ll get somewhere and call the cops.”

  They ran out the rear door and Monk said, “Lou! I left my keys in there.”

  “You want to go back?”

  He paused, undecided, looking at the screen door. “No.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They ran to 56th and grabbed a passing CTA bus.

  They w
alked swaying to the back, ignoring the stares at Monk’s bloody neck and shirt. In the seat Lou leaned back, exhaling deeply.

  “So,” he said. “What’s that Sun Tzu guy got to say about this?”

  Chapter 12

  She’s in 6-C

  They were on the lam. Successfully for the moment, but still, who knew what could happen next. Lou grinned, his face twisted cheerfully. Occasionally his lip twitched.

  “What?” Monk demanded. It was still early and the bus wasn’t full.

  There were places to sit, indestructible hard plastic, green and white like the bus system, with shiny chrome rails.

  “Your mother.”

  Lou looked at him askance. “My mother?”

  “Can you imagine her reaction to that guy?”

  Monk knew which guy he meant. “She’d have brought him a cup of coffee,” he said. He thought of her, a small woman dwarfed by her two-movie star handsome sons and working stiff father, a pipe fitter in Roseland. Always in a red checked apron, always in the kitchen. He recalled Spaghetti and bean and bacon soup and pancakes with syrup and sweet yams and liver. The source of the family laughter, the heart of the house. He regretted her passing as if it was yesterday rather than three years ago.

  “She’d have tried to teach him manners,” Monk laughed. “I can picture him in her kitchen, acting like he was some sort of tough guy. She’d have set him straight, wouldn’t she?”

  “You bet, Monk. She would have kicked his ass.” He laughed loudly. An elderly black woman glared in his direction, then looked pointedly away.

  Monk shook his head to remove the memories. “When are we going to call the cops?”

  “When we find somewhere to hide.”

  Monk said quietly, “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t think we should go to my bank.”

  “Why not? That’s where your money is.”

  “I know, but what if they find us?”

  “How could they find your bank?”

  “How did they find my house? Maybe they tracked us.”

  “Tracked us?” Lou said. “Like Indians? Monk, these guys beat people up. They kill people. But they don’t track people.”

  “Well, they did something to find us. And maybe they can find my bank, too. We can’t risk it.”

  “But what’ll we do?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Where’ll we stay?”

  “Don’t know.”

  They sat in silence while the bus inched down the road, groaning and wheezing as if asthmatic. Lou watched cars and trucks drift by as he considered their situation. No car. No money, couldn’t go to his place or Monk’s, couldn’t ride the bus forever. For one thing, the seats were hell on his lower back. “Wait,” he said suddenly. “I’ve got an idea.”

  *

  Cassidy was right; there was a doorman, a big Irishman who looked like a retired cop. They walked past her building without staring, turned the corner and stopped.

  “How do we get in?” Monk peered around the corner, his cheek pressed against the dark red brick. Subtle. He turned back. “Why don’t you just, you know... hit him? Knock him out.”

  “I don’t do that. Let’s try the back.”

  They walked around to the alley and looked up at six stories. One of them was hers, but which one? There was a locked gate and a high fence all around the building. Cassidy lived in a fortress.

  “Let’s try the direct approach,” Lou decided. They walked back to the front, up to the guard and Lou said, “Cassidy Adams, please.”

  The guard said, “Sure,” and opened the door. “She’s in 6-C.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.” He turned back to his station, hands behind his back, smiling, watching the street for troublemakers.

  Monk’s eyes widened and he held back a grin.

  Lou said, “Sometimes it’s easier than other times.”

  They took an elevator—the operator asked, “Floor?” and Monk answered, “Six,”—and walked down a short hall to the rear of the building. Lou knocked shave and a haircut on the door. No one knocked back two bits.

  “She’s not home,” Monk said.

  “We’ll wait.” Lou took a slender piece of plastic from his pocket, slid it between the door and the jamb and the door opened with a faint click. He replaced the plastic and smiled contentedly.

  “Is that legal?” asked Monk.

  Lou looked at the home-made burglar tool and considered. “I can’t imagine it is.”

  “Okay.” They entered her apartment. A short hall with front closet, bathroom on the left, kitchen on the right, sitting room at the end. A closed door over there, probably a bedroom. The living room was furnished and large cheap pictures hung on the walls in overwhelming ornate frames, ducks and ponds and horses that were done in browns and greens and seemed horribly depressing, like the lobby of an old age home.

  But the mobs were unlikely to find them and there was a kitchen. They made some sandwiches and coffee and helped themselves to her shower and at around six-fifteen Cassidy unlocked the door and came in.

  She was dressed in a red suit, the skirt just above her ankles in a modern style. Her hat matched and she had a gold brooch on her lapel for contrast. She looked great. She was carrying a bag of groceries, which she dropped when she saw Lou and Monk sitting on her sofa smoking cigarettes. Eggs oozed out onto the wood floor.

  Lou got up and went to help her. “Hi, Cassidy. It’s me, Lou Fleener.”

  “I remember.” She seemed at a loss for words, finally managing, “What are you doing here.” More forcefully, “How’d you get in?”

  “The doorman let us in,” Lou said. “Cassidy, this is Monk. Monk, Cassidy Adams.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Monk held out his hand, which she ignored.

  “I mean, in here!” She gestured absently around as if there was some doubt. Monk began to explain; which Lou thought wasn’t a good idea.

  He said, “The door wasn’t locked,” and touched her elbow.

  She mouthed, “The door wasn’t...?” while looking at it in confusion, but followed the pressure on her arm. Lou led her to a chair—her chair, he supposed—and offered her a drink. Her drink he supposed. She said, “Scotch,” without thinking, then shot out of the chair.

  “Wait a minute! This is my place. That’s my scotch.” She grabbed the bottle from Lou and the glass from Monk who had helpfully filled it with ice. Glaring, she paused to pour two fingers, gulped down one, made a face and poured another. “Now,” she said, her voice husky from the liquor, “explain.”

  Lou did, leaving out only a few details, like the fact that Cermak was a certifiable lunatic who’d managed to find them too quickly. “We’re looking for Braddock’s daughter,” he concluded, and offered her the picture.

  Cassidy took it without looking. “Let me see if I have this right. You break in on a mobster who sends some guys to shoot you.”

  “Right.”

  “You go to see another mobster.”

  “Guzman Cermak,” Monk explained. “He’s really a bad guy.”

  Cassidy stared at him as if studying an insect. “Who are you?”

  “He’s—”

  “I’m—”

  “Dion Monkton,” they said together.

  Lou finished with, “He’s called ‘Monk.’”

  “Pleased to meet’cha,” Monk held out his hand again, which she disregarded again.

  “You danced with him the other night,” Lou said.

  “At the Aragon,” Monk added

  “Right.”

  “But you left with Lou here,” Monk said.

  “And I had a lovely time,” Lou said politely.

  “Until those guys broke it up.” Cassidy slugged back another hit of scotch. “Anyway, you beat up this other mobster.”

  “We should call the cops about him,” said Monk, to Lou. “He is in my mother’s kitchen, you know.”

  Cassidy ignored that, which was impressive. How many women, Lou w
ondered, faced with this situation, would be able to pass over the news that a gangster was in a guy’s mother’s kitchen? She rose high in his regard.

  Cassidy could. “This other mobster you beat up is in the kitchen and he wants to kill you, so you came here to hide from him: Is that right?”

  “More or less,” Lou could see she wasn’t putting this in the best possible light. “It’s not our fault they’re trying to kill us.”

  “It isn’t? Whose fault, is it?”

  “That’s sort of...” Lou tried to think of a word.

  “Ambiguous,” Monk supplied and Lou nodded. Cassidy was suddenly afraid. Monk and Lou, uninvited, she could handle. They were firmly in that category women think of as nice guys; safe. They’d make passes, sure, but were easily controlled. But the mob?

  “What if they look here?” She asked.

  “Naw,” Monk said. “How could they?”

  “How did they find your house?” she asked him. Then to Lou, “Or yours?”

  Lou looked away while Monk answered. “I was wondering about that, myself. It doesn’t seem possible that they discovered us so quickly. It’s almost as if they’d been informed.”

  “Look, Cassidy,” Lou said, “I know this is odd—”

  “Odd?”

  “Awkward. But we need a place to stay, just for a couple of nights. Not even in your room. We could bunk on the couch...” He looked around, “or somewhere.”

  “No. Never. Not in a million years.” Cassidy sipped from her scotch glass and reached for a cigarette but the photo was in her way. In the process of putting it on the end table it fell and fluttered to the floor, gentle as a feather. She bent down to pick it up. When she straightened her expression was thoughtful.

  “Is this her?” she asked.

  “Um-hmm...”

  “She’s so young.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s the daughter of this other mobster?”

  “Duke Braddock,” Monk said quietly, picking up on the tone.

  “You’re helping him find her.” Cassidy’s eyes were glued to the picture. She made a quick decision and looked at Lou. “You can stay here until you find her.” She held out her glass and Monk filled it. All couches are instruments of torture. Monk, on the floor, slept soundly while Lou thrashed around trying for a comfortable position. By the time dawn rolled around, he was ready to go back to Cermak.