“I—nothing.” Her voice was the quiet squeak of a mouse. Braddock shook his head and wondered, how had it come to this? She was like some pale ghost, flitting about the house.
“Are you coming in or not?”
“In, I suppose.” Her voice rose at the end as if she was asking permission. She was ready to flee if the answer changed.
But he was feeling expansive, even to her. He gestured to the chair opposite. “Grapefruit?” She shook her head and perched on the edge of the chair, not belonging in the room, or in his life.
Well, he thought, she didn’t belong, not anymore, He glanced at the paper, reaffirming his impression of himself. He gestured for the servant to bring her something anyway. “So, Adele. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing.” She paused as the grapefruit was set in front of her.
“Eat,” Braddock commanded. “You’re too thin.”
“No, I—”
“Eat,” he demanded, more strongly than he intended. “Sorry. Please eat.”
Obediently she picked up the silver spoon and poked at the fruit. “What are you so happy about?” she asked quietly.
“Do you know Malcolm Warburton? I believe he’s going to be the next mayor of Chicago.”
“Isn’t he the one who’s so against crime?” Adele’s expression was puzzled which Braddock mistook for interest.
“Yes, he is.”
“But... but...”
“You’re confused.” He sat back in his chair, a china cup held in front of his lips, immensely enjoying her bewilderment.
She gestured around the room, taking in the expensive surroundings. “You’re a—”
“Yes?” he prompted, smiling. God; this was delicious.
“A crook yourself,” she blurted.
Braddock burst out laughing and Adele cringed like a scolded puppy. “I am a crook. But I am much more than that.” He paused, carefully selecting his words. “I am a king maker.” A man appeared at his side, leaned over and whispered, too low for Adele to hear. Braddock nodded and said, “Let them in.” He turned back to Adele. “I want to see these people. Please leave.”
She opened her mouth to protest, closed it and lowered her eyes. “Of course.” She got up and silently left the room.
Braddock glanced back at the paper and sighed. How had he ended up with Adele?
Lou and Monk were escorted in by Milt Stiltmeyer. Lou chatted politely. “How’s the hand?” earned him a glare from the thug. “Nice day, huh? Good for a mugging.”
“Don’t you ever shut up, Fleener?” Milt growled.
“No, not usually. Did you really dress up as a woman to get close enough to kill a guy?”
“Just shut up, will ya?”
“’Cause you must have been one ugly woman. Don’t know how anybody’d fall for it, as big as you are. Did you shave?”
Monk said, “Knock it off, Lou. This is serious.”
Lou dropped it and was quiet as they entered Braddock’s study. In the daylight, the room was sunny and pleasant, a warm bright haven. Braddock rose and gestured to the table. Monk sat in the chair recently vacated by Adele.
“Coffee?” asked Braddock. He seemed quite pleased to see them.
“No,” said Monk and “sure,” said Lou. They waited until someone brought it.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” asked Braddock.
“Cut the crap,” Monk said. He’d been fuming ever since figuring out he’d been conned and got more annoyed as he watched Braddock’s amused sneer. “We figured out what you’re up to.”
“Really? And what is that?”
“There is no Amanda Braddock.” Monk intended this as a bombshell and was surprised at the reaction. Braddock laughed out loud. “Of course, there isn’t. I made it up.”
“The picture?” said Lou, thinking, this is great coffee. He held up his cup and a guy refilled it immediately. The good life, he decided, was well named.
“I had it done at a local studio.”
“You tricked us into thinking it was your daughter so we’d go after the local gangs,” Monk said.
“Yes.”
“You figured since you couldn’t get Lou to help, that I’d go along. I’d fall for the story because you knew about my daughter.”
“Yes. Very good, Mr. Monkton. You’re as bright as I’d heard. What else did I do?”
Monk was confused by Braddock’s easy acceptance. It made him feel off balance and that angered him even more. “You had us bother the gangs because you wanted trouble and couldn’t be involved yourself.”
“Go on.”
“You wanted a gang war.” Monk was thinking out loud now. It was as if Braddock was a professor trying to get a student to guess the right answer. “Because you’re planning something else. And the...” he shook his head, staring at Braddock, “...the missing private eyes. We weren’t the first. You sent others against the mob. We were just the latest.”
“That’s right.”
“So, you sent them, they got run out of town or killed—and now it’s our turn. You son of a bitch. Now the mob thinks we killed Cermak. They won’t stop until we’re dead.”
Lou had been following this with only mild interest. “Why?” he asked.
Monk said, “Warburton,” and Braddock applauded.
“Bravo, Mr. Monkton. You’ve got it.” He couldn’t help gloating. “Malcolm Warburton, the next mayor of Chicago. He’s running on an anti-crime platform, you know.”
“And crime is up because there’s a gang war that you caused.” Monk got up and began to pace around the sunny room. He stopped to look at the chessboard and got an idea. “You’re a chess player, aren’t you?” He reached down and gently touched a piece. It was cool to his fingers.
Braddock nodded slowly. “I am a chess player. And I’ve moved you like pieces on the board. You followed your instructions so much better than the others.”
“So, what now?”
“Now? You leave here and are on your own. I have no more interest in you.”
“You cold blooded bastard.” Monk’s face flushed as he realized how much he’d been used. He recalled Lou saying, “Remember; this is your idea.” Braddock had out- thought him, out-played him and now was throwing him—and Lou—away like garbage.
“Maybe we’ll take you with us.”
“Do you think even the surprisingly formidable Mr. Fleener can help you? You’re a fool Mr. Monkton. Get out.” Braddock the genial socialite was gone, replaced by the hardened criminal who’d clawed his way to the top of Chicago’s mobs.
Monk picked up the chess table and threw it. Pieces scattered across the tile floor and Monk followed the table in a lunge against Braddock. Braddock yelled, “Milt!” before Monk’s hands closed around his throat. They crashed to the floor, Lou jumped to his feet and the cavalry arrived.
Unfortunately, it was the cavalry for their side.
Milt and seven others filled the doorway and seeing Monk rolling on the floor with their boss, charged forward like a stampede. Lou grabbed at anything to hand, throwing an orange juice pitcher, coffee cups and a chair. He charged the attackers, leaping onto a divan and diving into them. Everyone fell like tenpins and Lou rolled out of the thrashing group. A hand grabbed his ankle and he twisted, picked up a shard of glass and stabbed. The hand jerked away.
Keep moving, he thought; don’t stop, but he wasn’t feeling much confidence. The room was too small, there were too many of them and Monk was busy trying to kill Braddock. Lou glanced over—ducking two wildly thrown punches—and saw Braddock laying on the floor with Monk still attached to his neck. Braddock was turning as red as his robe.
Lou kicked a kneecap, stomped an instep and thrust an elbow into a neck, which cleared a path to Braddock. He grabbed Monk by the collar, threw him aside and dragged Braddock to his feet.
“Stop,” he shouted, gun against Braddock’s head. He felt Monk get up behind him and saw the crowd drift to a slow halt, forming a sort of human wall before them. He
held Braddock like a shield. “Everybody back off or the boss gets it.”
For a moment, there was an impasse. Then Milt—it had to be Milt, Lou thought—bellowed and shoved through the crowd. He lunged forward in a football tackle, taking down Braddock, Lou and Monk in a tangled scrum, hitting his boss with every blow he landed on them.
I shouldn’t have annoyed him so much, Lou thought. He tried to get to his feet, get some space to move, but Milt had learned from their previous encounters and wasn’t about to let him up. Braddock had collapsed and the crowd joined in. The fists began falling like rocks, pounding them until Lou and Monk were nearly unconscious.
Braddock said, “stop.” His voice was a raspy cackle and he rubbed his throat which held red blotches from Monk’s hands. He picked up a fallen chair and sat down heavily, breathing while his guards waited. Monk and Lou lay on the floor with the rest of the debris.
“Pick them up,” Braddock commanded and Lou and Monk were hoisted to their feet, supported by unfriendly hands. “I have an idea.”
Braddock didn’t look at all like the friendly host anymore. He hacked and wheezed and twisted his neck and licked at a split in his lip where Lou had managed to hit him. He spit blood and eyed them coldly. To the guards he said. “Beat them up, but don’t break them. Don’t leave marks on their faces or break any bones. I want them slowed but not immobilized.”
To them he said, “I’m going to throw you back to the streets. I’ll give you three hours,” he looked at a clock Lou hadn’t managed to destroy... “from now. At 2:00 I will make calls—anonymous, of course—to my counterparts, informing them of your whereabouts. How long you last is up to you.”
“I hope you last a long time. It will increase the gangland activity which will help my plan. But when they catch you—and they will catch you—I trust your deaths will be unpleasant.”
“Take them away.”
*
Milt Stiltmeyer—Milt the stilt to his buddies down at the guard shack, and Millie to his enemies, stared down the barrel of the stub nosed .38 and cried, “no!” but the gun barrel never wavered.
Duke Braddock held the pistol at arm’s length and sighted down the barrel, knowing he couldn’t miss. Four strong men held Milt tightly, their heads turned away to avoid the sight they knew was coming. And to avoid the blood splatters.
“Boss, no!” Milt struggled, tugging this way and that, trying to pull away. It was all instinctive, a desire to flee, but where could he go? Duke Braddock had a gun pointed at his face and stood only three feet away. He changed tack and demanded, “Why?”
“Because you almost got me killed, you stupid bastard.” Braddock’s finger tightened and Milt stopped struggling. It was clearly no use. He thought about his last five minutes of life. Diving into a pile to save his boss, hitting Fleener, clubbing the little creep into the carpet. Sure, he realized now, it was risky to get Braddock involved, but he’d been so angry. The sight of Fleener holding a gun to his boss’s head, that smug little grin, all of it made Milt’s temper explode and he’d just jumped without thinking.
Now he was going to die.
After they took turns kicking and punching Fleener and his movie star buddy, the guards had hoisted them, bleeding and unconscious out of the ruined library and down to the Packard. They dropped them in the trunk, Billy and Russ got in front and drove away. Milt and the others, a little the worse for wear but feeling pretty good about things, went back to the house.
“Who’s got a gun?” Braddock had asked. He didn’t look so hot; his hair was every which way; his jacket was torn and he cradled one hand as if it was bruised. But Milt had stepped forward and handed over his own pistol, pleased with himself that he’d taken out Lou Fleener before the guy could cause any more damage. Je-sus that guy could fight! Milt didn’t know how he did it, but he shook his head with a grudging respect for the little toad. He was kind of glad they hadn’t killed him.
So, he said, “here, boss; take mine,” and was shocked when Braddock pointed it at him.
“What?” he yelped, shocked.
“Take him to the garage,” Braddock said, and the other guys—friends, Milt thought, his own buddies—grabbed him like he was somebody else and dragged him away. Braddock followed and waited while the guys lined Milt up against the back wall.
“Why?” he pleaded again.
“Because,” Braddock said, and pulled the trigger.
The gun boomed in the room and Milt fell like a side of beef, dead.
Chapter 15
How long you last is up to you
Monk woke up spitting blood. He rolled over on his side, moaning out loud at the pain that shot through his ribs. He coughed and his ripped shirt got another splash of red. One eye was glued shut and the other was blurry. He hurt everywhere. He could just make out that he was in a dimly lit place that smelled like gasoline and old rubber. Strength left him and he fell back to sleep.
Later he woke up cold and shivering. His face was scraping against small rocks and someone nearby was snoring. “Lou?” Monk cringed when he moved, the pain felt like lightning through his body. He placed an arm on the ground to lever himself up and nearly screamed when the arm buckled. Broken? He recalled Braddock’s instructions and doubted it. The bastard.
He wondered where he was.
“Lou?” The sound was swallowed in the large room. He stretched his face, trying to get his right eye open, gave up and concentrated on focusing his left. He was in a garage. Lou was next to him making grunting noises in his sleep.
Monk rolled over and his chin fell on Lou’s chest.
He heard scratchy breathing and a heartbeat and decided Lou was alive, which was nice but not good enough. His body felt like a marionette with all the strings cut. What time was it?
“Lou, wake up.” He ground his jaw into the chest and felt movement.
“What? Ow.” Groaning, muttering and a couple of strong curses. Lou said, “Are we alive?”
“I guess.”
“Where are we?”
“I don’t know.”
“What good are you?”
Monk’s thought exactly. An infinite sadness overwhelmed him and he fell onto his back. What good am I? He felt like a bigger failure than even when Inez had taken Corrie. Braddock had treated them like toys, tossed away when he was done with them. Monk lay on the floor in misery of the soul.
Lou began to laugh. “Nice that you tried to kill him, though.” He began: to move around, creaking and groaning like a wounded bear. There came a click and light exploded. Monk jerked his eye closed.
“We’re in a garage,” Lou said. He rattled something. “The door’s locked.” He rattled something else. “My ribs feel broken.” Feet scraping on gravel. “And my arms hurt. Ooh... kay. I think I’m going to faint.” Then the sound of a body falling.
“Lou?” The desire to just lie there and die was appealing, but slowly Monk pushed it away. He made his eye open. He squinted at Lou and the garage and the locked door. He decided—for the moment—to stay alive.
Later, when they were both conscious, Lou limped over to a workbench and found a hammer that he used to attack the garage door with all the force of a small child. He gasped between puny blows but eventually managed to break the hasp that held the door. Outside it was bright and warm, a typical Chicago afternoon. How long had they been unconscious? “Can you get up?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you walk?”
“I don’t know. What time is it?”
“My watch is broken. Is it two yet?”
“Mine’s gone.” Monk groaned and sat up. “We’ve got to get to Cassidy’s.”
“How?”
“Bus, I guess.” Lou sounded like he was speaking through a bag of marbles. “We’ve got no money.”
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Jaw feels busted. Are you up?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
At 11:30 P.M. Cassidy opened the door and shrie
ked as they fell into the apartment. Lou stumbled to the chair, Monk just lay where he fell, too exhausted to move.
“What happened? Cassidy demanded. She had to push his foot to get the door closed. “I’ve been so worried.”
“I had to threaten the bus driver,” Lou said wearily.
“He didn’t want to let us on.”
“I wouldn’t either. You two look like death warmed over.”
“That’s an improvement,” Lou’s laugh became a cough.
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”
“No. I know a guy. He’ll come here.” Lou gave her the number and she left, muttering, to make the call. When she came back she was wearing a flannel robe over her nightgown. “He said he’d be here in half an hour. I’ll go tell the doorman to let him in.” She looked them over. “How did you get the doorman to let you in?”
“Slipped him a twenty.”
“Where’d you get a twenty?”
“Stole it from the bus driver.”
She stood looking down at them, her heart pounding. Lou had closed his eyes and appeared to be asleep. Monk was curled in the fetal position at her door. A long cut on his face had broken open and blood was dripping on the floor. She felt like crying or running away. “I’m no good at this,” she whispered.
Three hours later the grizzled old drunk Lou said was a doctor was gone, leaving a smell of antiseptic and scotch. Lou was in Cassidy’s bed, Monk was wrapped like a mummy on the sofa and Cassidy was sitting with her head in her hands in the kitchen. Her throat was raw from too many cigarettes. The clock on the stove said 2:36 and she knew she couldn’t go to work. At eight I’ll call in, she decided, but in the meantime, what do I do with these two?
Her emotions were ragged as she remembered her father, home bloody and bruised after those stupid rodeos, her mother sitting up crying, or her father not coming home at all, drunk or cheating or dead; who knew? She lit another smoke and decided to leave as soon as they were better.
Around eleven Lou called to her with a small voice from the bedroom. “How am I?” he asked when she came in. “God, you look awful.”
“I look awful?” She felt like hitting him. He was lying in her bed, half alive (the doctor had said the glass was half full, before asking for another one of scotch.). Instead she said, “Who was that guy?”
Missing Amanda Page 11