Cassidy had gone to her bedroom, pointedly closing the door. They had heard an emphatic click of a deadbolt and after arguing for a while drew cards for the sofa. Monk lost, Lou got the couch and Monk slept like a baby. Had he cheated?
Still annoyed, Lou got up and made coffee, slid into trousers and suspenders and a tee but didn’t bother with a shirt. He grabbed his hat and slipped out the door, nodded to the new doorman so he’d recognize him later and walked a block to a corner Mom and Pop store.
“You carry the Trib?” A middle aged oriental woman behind a beat up wooden counter pointed to a stack. He grabbed the top one and his hand froze. The picture on the front, under the headline, House Blows Up was of a fiery inferno, shot from street level. It showed a small house engulfed in flame.
The house was Monk’s.
He dropped a dime on the counter, folded the paper and skulked back to Cassidy’s, feeling like a fugitive. All the way he felt eyes on him, like he was being hunted.
The doorman nodded and Lou barged into the apartment shouting, “Wake up.” He went to the tiny kitchen and poured three cups of coffee, handed one to Monk, rising groggy from the floor in a twisted heap of brown wool blanket. He knocked on Cassidy’s door and yelled, “Coffee. Big news. Get out here.”
Monk, blinking like an owl, rolled his tongue around his mouth with a bitter expression and scratched the stubble on his cheek. He punched out a smoke and lit it. He fumbled to put on his glasses and when Lou handed him the paper his eyes widened. “Holy Jesus Christ!”
Lou handed him his coffee.
“That’s my house,” Monk yelled. “My mom’s house.”
Cassidy came from the bedroom. She was completely dressed and made up perfectly. “What’s all the noise?”
“My mom’s house.” Monk gave her the paper and she sat on the edge of the unmade couch reading the article.
“It says here that there were three bodies found in the house.” She looked up, her expression troubled. “You said you left three men in there, Lou.”
He took the paper back and read silently. Monk was in shock, mumbling into his coffee. “She always said she’d take it with her,” he said.
“Who?” Cassidy asked.
“My mom. Her stuff. She always said she’d take it all with her.” He gestured to the newspaper. “She did.”
“The police say it’s arson and the bodies make it murder,” Lou said. “They say the explosion was last night around five.” He caught her eye. “We were here at five, Cassidy. You can check with the doorman.”
She still looked distressed, but the suspicion and fear were fading. Clearly, for a moment she had believed they had torched that house and killed three men. Seeing their reactions, she went back to believing them.
“We left there around two,” Lou said. “They must have found the place a little after we left.”
Monk said softly, “Do you know what this means?”
“No,” Cassidy and Lou said at once.
“It means that we’re dead.” He looked to their blank expressions. “Don’t you see? The guys who did this were probably from Tony Scolio. He tracked us down and torched the house. He didn’t know that Cermak and his goons were in there. But this morning, when he reads this, he’ll think that we were inside. He’ll think we’re dead.”
Despite his mother’s house being burned, Monk began to smile. After all, that’s what insurance was for. “And Cermak, the psycho little freak, is dead.”
Cassidy caught on. “So, they’ll stop looking for you.”
“That’s right.”
“Hold it,” Lou said. Both turned to look.
“You’re saying that Scolio killed Cermak, not knowing we’d left him in Monk’s house?”
“That’s right,” Monk said. “How’s that for morally disingenuous?”
Chapter 13
Popcorn would be good
Lou bought tickets at the booth, grumbling over the cost. “Three bucks? I remember when a ballgame cost a dollar.” They entered Comiskey Park with a few other stragglers, late for the ball game. The weather was perfect for baseball; hot, muggy and gray. The temperature was 96, the humidity was just slightly this side of being immersed in Lake Michigan and his jacket was plastered to his body.
He wore the jacket to cover the gun and wore the gun because they were there to see Rufus Black, head of the colored mobs in Chicago. A call to Angel netted the information that Rufus was a season ticket holder.
Angel had said, without apparent relief, “You’re not dead?”
“Nope.”
“Monk’s not dead?”
“Nope.”
“But that was Monk’s house, wasn’t it?”
“Yep.”
“And you’re not dead?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Then who—?”
“Remember who we talked about?”
“Scolio?”
“The other one.”
“Cermak? That was Cermak got blown up? That’s great news.”
“Yeah, but Angel? We’d appreciate it if you don’t tell anybody. You know, ’cause they think we’re dead and all.”
Angel promised to keep mum, a vow certain to be broken by evening, but he gave Lou section and row numbers and Lou thanked him for his silence anyway.
Rufus Black had box seats just behind first base. He wore a tan suit with the coat hung over the railing. With red suspenders, he looked like a southern crackerjack lawyer waiting to railroad a client, except he was black, himself. He munched handfuls of popcorn from a white paper bag.
He didn’t look like he had a gun anywhere, but the two big guys behind him certainly did. Lou saw bulges under their arms, where muscles didn’t normally bulge.
Monk and Lou walked down the aisle steps, awkward from the long short pattern and came up to him from the right just as the crack of a bat made the whole crowd come screaming to their feet. Over the speakers Jack Brickhouse, the Sox announcer, was screaming, “It’s going... it’s going... It’s gone!” The crowd rose to its feet and applauded and slowly settled down, like a cushion being deflated. The organ player ground to a wheezy halt and they stepped forward.
“Rufus Black?”
He was fat, about 290 pounds. He didn’t seem worried or angry, or even interested as he watched them approach. If the sight of two white guys entering his box bothered him he concealed it well. His expression was as flat and empty as a crocodile. The two hulks behind however were milling about, hands under their coats, waiting for orders.
“You cops?” asked Rufus Black. He shoveled a fistful of popcorn into his mouth and chewed, running his tongue around his mouth to dislodge stray kernels.
“No,” Monk said.
“Feds?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I’m Lou Fleener. I’m a private eye. This is Dion Monkton. Can we have a minute of your time?”
“Another one,” he said softly. “God damn.”
“What?”
But Rufus Black didn’t answer. He seemed to be trying to classify them. They were private license, but they were also white. This wasn’t the Deep South, but prejudice and racism still flourished. Wariness and defiance were apparent, but so was something else. Humor? Was that a trace of amusement in those black eyes?
Eventually he nodded and patted the air behind him to tell the body guards to sit. “It’s Jake,” he said to them. “I’ll listen.”
Lou hadn’t been around colored people much. They were in Korea of course, in numbers greater than their population in civilian life, but they stayed to themselves whenever they could. Probably a good thing since there were more rednecks in the Army than anywhere and despite Truman’s desegregating the service, so very little had changed.
Rufus Black’s voice was a low bass rumble and in the soft cadence, Lou heard the sound of a man who was used to being in charge, at home on his own turf. It sounded faintly musical with a lilt like a calliope whistle. He wondered what his f
lat Corn Belt accent sounded like to Rufus Black.
“Sit,” he said, and they sat on the hard-wooden bench. “Beer?”
“Thanks, no,” Monk said.
“Sure,” Lou agreed. “Popcorn would be good, too.”
Rufus Black said, “What do you want?”
Lou held out the picture and he took it in one large hand, gazing at it for several minutes. Renny Buscema took a three-two count and Rufus waited for him to get fanned for a strike. “Damn,” he said and handed the picture back. “So?”
“Her name’s Amanda Braddock. She’s been kidnapped and we’re trying to find her.”
“Why come here?”
“Her father is Duke Braddock.”
Rufus Black jerked as if stung. “Duke Braddock’s kid? And you think I done it?” His voice got louder with surprise and Lou realized the soft voice was a trick he used to get listened to. This was a smarter man than he appeared.
“That’s funny, that is.” The menace was suddenly apparent. The body guards were back at attention. Brickhouse called out a stand-up triple but it was remote, as if from some other place where it mattered.
Rufus Black chewed, his jaw jutting rotating hypnotically. He visibly calmed himself. Lou wondered what his life must have been like, carving out a place in a world of people who routinely lorded it over him, threatened him. Slavery wasn’t that far behind in history, the Klan still wore white sheets and burned crosses.
But the smile returned, covering the cold look in the eyes. “Listen, private eye. I’m a colored man. I don’t deal with white folks. I especially do not take a white girl. Something like that be suicide. Police, mobs, riots...” He shook his head. “I ain’t that stupid.” He seemed disposed to talk. “You think this gang stuff?”
Lou nodded. “Braddock seems to think so. And it’s all I’ve got to go on.”
“Why you think it’s me?”
“I don’t. I’m just asking the gang bosses if they know anything.”
“You come here first?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Scolio,” Lou said. “And Cermak.”
“That little worm? You saw him?” Rufus laughed. “How’d that go over?”
“Not too well. He tried to kill us.”
A bellow of laughter. “I bet he did. Cermak’d kill his wife if she burned the steak. He’s a mean little mother.” He sighed and thought for a while.
“What’s with the movie star?” He gestured at Monk who stood stiffly nearby. “He don’t like our company? He a racist?”
“Monk? No.” Lou smiled at the idea. “He’s a Cubs fan.”
Rufus Black really looked mad. “A Cubs fan? Here?” He shook his round head at the very idea. “You got some nerve coming here, private eye. I’ll give you that. But I’ll give you some advice too. You’re looking in the wrong place. None of the gangs gonna be involved in something this ugly.”
“Why not?”
“I got a good thing going down here,” he mused. “Run some numbers, some girls, ganja for the hard-lifers. A little action. Tony Scolio’s got the west side, don’t interfere with me. Cermak’s a snake, but he’s got the near north side and he knows better’n to upset things. Braddock controls the north shore. Nobody gonna get in to the other guy’s yard. Just ain’t gonna happen.
“I’ll tell you this. Look somewhere else, private eye. Something ain’t right here. That girl be missing is a shame, but it ain’t one of us.”
“Who else?” Monk asked.
Rufus Black shifted his bulk to consider him. “I dunno, Cubs fan. But don’t come here no more. Next time I might not be so friendly. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. Got it.” They stood to leave. Rufus Black had already turned back to the Sox, forgetting all about them.
“Okay, so it’s not Rufus Black,” said Monk. He was smoking—they were all smoking, but he had two, one in the ashtray, one between his lips scattering ash on his shirt—and sipping on a bottle of Hamm’s, the beer that made Milwaukee famous.
“And you said it’s not Scolio,” said Cassidy, from the couch through a haze of Pall Mall smoke.
“And it’s certainly not Cermak,” said Lou from the kitchen table where he was cleaning his gun. “‘Cause that little sucker is dead.” he sounded pleased.
“You’ve accomplished nothing,” said Cassidy, unnecessarily, since they all knew that. “By annoying the three biggest mobsters in Chicago.”
There was palpable gloom in the apartment since the visit to the ballpark. Rufus Black was a non-lead and the Sox had lost both games, a fact that preoccupied Lou Fleener more than the other. Cassidy was wondering what this meant to her vis-a-vis the apartment sharing—was Scolio still out to kill them? —and Monk was dealing out cards. His own deck was lost but Cassidy had found a pinochle set in a closet and Monk had—somehow—figured out a game with the forty-eight-card deck.
Lou sighted through the open cylinder of the stub nosed pistol and spun the chamber. A small pile of bullets were scattered on the Formica near the ash tray. Basically, a cheerful man, he was presently downcast. How could the Sox blow a nine-run lead? Now they were three games out since the Yankees had dropped one as well. A nine-run lead...
Cassidy sighed deeply as well. Her apartment was filling up with men and cigarettes, which she didn’t mind much, but such gloomy men. Cassidy considered herself a happy go lucky kind of girl—no one else did, who knew her—able to take life’s little knockdowns with a smile. But here she had two men who were as far from cheerful as it was possible to get. Monk looked like a mortician, or a dark ages priest searching through the entrails of a goat, seeking guidance. Lou, who despite appearances was beginning to attract her, was moaning about the White Sox, like that mattered.
And, of course, people were out to kill them. If those men happened by when Cassidy Adams was around, would they be chivalrous and let her go unharmed? She didn’t think so. Maybe it was time to leave, she thought, but how? They were, after all, here.
Monk was lost in thought as well, and none of it pleasant. He thought of his daughter, unseen for five years now. He thought of his mother’s house. He thought of vicious spiteful Inez and her stranglehold on his life and money. He thought about putting the red ten on a black jack.
He thought about his bookstore. He thought about the people trying to kill them. He thought about Inez again. It all came back to her. The heavy burden on his life, the situation they were in, all because he felt sorry for Amanda Braddock who reminded him of his own daughter Corrie.
He put a black queen on a red king and got a new card. He thought about Corrie and Tony Scolio and his ex. He turned over a card and said, “Wait a minute.”
“What?” asked both Cassidy and Lou from the couch and the table. Lou was still pointing the empty gun.
“There’s no daughter,” said Monk. He stared at them, indistinct through the smoke. “I’ve been a fool. Braddock’s played us—me—for fools. He tried to get Lou to work for him but Lou wouldn’t do it. So, he brought me out there and told me this story about his daughter. He knew about me and Corrie. He knew that I’d be a sap and want to help him because of my feelings about my daughter.” Monk became very bitter. “He suckered me.”
Cassidy looked thoughtful. Lou set the gun down, opened his mouth to speak, didn’t speak, and one by one replaced the bullets into the chamber. When he was finished he said, “I don’t know...”
“What’s not to know? It all makes sense. Why didn’t I see it sooner?”
“Like before you got the local mobs all riled up?”
“Thank you, Cassidy. I wasn’t going to mention that. I’ll bet that Braddock was the one who tipped them off; who we are, and where they could find us.”
“That figures,” admitted Cassidy. She was beginning to think this crazy idea might be true. If so, these guys with her weren’t just targets, they were patsies. She began to mentally pack her suitcase. Maybe it was time for another stab at Hollywood.
<
br /> “How’d he know about Inez?” asked Lou.
“I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “Maybe he... he could...have...I don’t know.”
“It’s not that hard to find out about an ex-wife,” said Cassidy. “You just ask around a bit and people will tell you stuff. If he was onto Monk, he could have found out all about him.”
“How do you know this?”
“I used to work for a skip tracer—a guy who finds deadbeats. Like a private eye but just for finding people who don’t want to be found.”
“Interesting,” said Lou. “So maybe he wanted me for some reason and when I wouldn’t play along, he looked up the dope on Monk and sold him on the idea. That means we’ve been had.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” said Monk.
“So, what are we going to do about it?” asked Cassidy thinking, I’m out of here.
“We go and talk to Braddock,” said Lou. He snapped shut the chamber of the .38 and smiled happily.
Chapter 14
I am a crook
Duke Braddock looked deeply into his grapefruit and laughed. He had the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune on the table at breakfast, with the picture of Monk’s mother’s house on the front page. The story confirmed what he already knew; that somebody had died in the explosion.
But it was just now, when the phone rang, that he’d found out who. Guzman Cermak was dead. This was so much better than he’d planned that he felt like dancing around the room. Guzman Cermak was dead and Lou Fleener—his Lou Fleener—had killed him. Braddock felt an almost paternal pride in the pudgy detective. Who would have imagined?
He sipped Columbian coffee from a china cup and felt the warm sunshine pour down on him like honey. He closed his eyes and basked in his own brilliance as if he was the sun itself. When he opened them, he saw Adele hunched in the doorway, halfway in, halfway out. The sun went out. “What do you want?”
Missing Amanda Page 10