Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  “Murray?” Lou smiled, showing a broken tooth and red split lips. “He’s a doctor that got his license revoked—for drinking if you can believe it. Lost his license when he amputated the wrong leg. I helped him out on a few things because it’s useful to have somebody like Murray around.”

  “Have you been...have you used...I mean—”

  “Have I been hurt before? Sure. Well, not like this. I usually win these things. So again, how am I?”

  “He says you’re going to be all right. You’ve got three bruised ribs, your right arm is sprained, so’s your shoulder. You have a concussion and some teeth are broken...” She started to cry, which Lou tried to ignore.

  “And Monk?”

  “He’s not as bad as you. No broken bones. His face is banged up. They seemed to have hit you more than him.”

  “I guess I pissed them off more.” He adjusted himself in the bed.

  “None of this makes any sense, Lou.” Cassidy walked out of the room and closed the door. None of it made any damn sense at all.

  It made sense to Monk when he woke up. “I’m pissing blood,” he said, hobbling back to the couch. Cassidy had decided to go to the store, to buy milk and smokes or just get out. The windows were open for the heat and traffic could be heard from six floors below, the sound of life going on.

  “He wants us in good health when the mob finds us and kills us. We’ll take longer to find and cause more trouble. It’s more fun, too, I’d imagine.”

  “Braddock’s one sick bastard, you know that?

  He’s beginning to annoy me.” Lou staggered to the kitchen and began the daunting chore of making coffee. He lit a cigarette and put the percolator on the little gas stove and clumped back into the living room. Monk was sitting upright on the couch staring at the wall.

  “We’re gonna have to do something about Mr. Braddock, aren’t we?” Lou asked.

  Monk remained silent.

  “Monk? What’s the matter?”

  But Monk just made a dismissing motion with his fingers and continued to stare at the wall.

  Cassidy got back around six carrying a large bag of groceries.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said when Lou offered to help. “You’re in no shape.”

  “I’m feeling better, actually. It looks worse than it is.”

  “It looks awful.” Cassidy put things away and took out a pot to make soup. She nodded for Lou to come to the kitchen and whispered to Lou, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. He’ll be all right. What about you?” Cassidy sighed. “I don’t know. This is all too weird for me. You guys running from the mob, getting beat up. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Give it time, huh?”

  “Is there time? They’re gonna find you and kill you. One day or another. You set foot outside that door and maybe some guy sees you and tells somebody. Then there’s bullets and killing and then what?”

  Lou was at a loss on that. It seemed to him that after the killing part he wouldn’t care much anymore. But he saw her point. “I know we’ve got to think of something. But thinking’s Monk’s department. I’m sure in a day or so he’ll feel better and have an idea. Just wait.”

  “Yeah,” said Cassidy. “Just wait.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Lou asked Monk a day later when Cassidy was at work. “Why are you still moping?”

  Monk turned his head and stared, his expression blank. The side of his face was covered with a bandage; otherwise he was beginning to look better. Lou felt good enough to pace around the apartment like a caged tiger. From near the kitchen he said, “Is it because you got beat up? Because that happens you know.”

  From the bedroom he asked, “Is it the face? That’ll heal without a scar, Murray said so and I believe him. You’ll still look like Clark Gable on a good day.”

  Back in the living room he bent down near the couch and he said sharply, “Monk, snap out of it. You’re acting like this is Inez all over again. You gotta get over this.”

  Back by the kitchen, “Crap, I’m outta cigarettes.” Lou admitted over soup that evening, “I can’t get through to him. It’s like he doesn’t care anymore.” He shook his head in baffled annoyance. “I’ve only seen him once before like this and that’s when Inez left him. He was a basket case for a long time.” He said this in the aggrieved tones of a man who didn’t understand heartbreak because he’d never felt it.

  Cassidy asked, “Who’s Inez?”

  “Ah; good question. I met her first. Just out of Korea, Monk and me would set up a small shop together. I met her at some USO thing, but he fell hard for her. I didn’t care so they went out, and less than a couple of weeks later they run off to Vegas together. I’m thinking ‘good for Monk’ but when they come back they’re married. Married, I tell you.

  “She was a looker and pretty soon she’s going out and Monk’s miserable and whiny. So, he buys her a car and she stays home for a while. That starts a pattern. She goes out, he ponies up something, she stays home. One day she comes out with ‘I’m knocked up.’

  “Monk’s happy as a goat in a junk yard. He’s gonna be a father. Inez gives birth to Corrie and for about a year it’s great. Then she blows town.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, just gone. Monk and Corrie were alone for two years when she comes back with some new guy. Claims she wants the kid back. Monk says no and gets a lawyer but Inez is the mother and she gets custody. Monk hasn’t seen or heard from her in nearly five years. It busted him up pretty bad inside, that.”

  “I see,” Cassidy said. She looked to the sofa where Monk sat quietly. “Eat your soup.”

  Saturday, she sent Lou out in the hall to walk, saying his pacing was driving her crazy. She went to the living room and sat down on the sofa with Monk. “Lou told me about your ex-wife. You want to talk about it?”

  “No.” It was the first thing he’d said in three days.

  He turned to her and Cassidy was surprised to see tears. “Yes,” he said. “I screwed it up. It’s my fault.”

  “What is?”

  He made a circular motion with his hands. “Everything. Braddock, the mob, this,” he touched his face. ‘‘They’re gonna kill us and it’s my fault.”

  “Why is it your fault? Lou went along with it. He led most of it, he said.”

  “Yeah, he does that. Lou jumps in with both feet and damn the torpedoes. But me, I should have known better. I’m supposed to be smart.”

  “You are smart, Monk. You’re the smartest man I’ve ever met.” She touched his hand but he snatched it away as if burned by her.

  “No, I’m not. I didn’t understand Inez or the courts and look what happened. I didn’t think things through with Braddock and he played me for a fool. A God damn stupid fool.”

  Cassidy was silent for a long time. The sun went across the wall and Lou banged on the door.

  “Can I come in now? I’m tired of walking.”

  “Not yet. We’re talking.”

  Lou seemed dubious, but he went back into the hall, closing the door behind him.

  “Monk? Listen to me.”

  He turned to her, his head low.

  “You’re right,” she said. “You are stupid.” Her voice was harsh and angry.

  “I’d be sympathetic with you about your ex; that was unfair. But it sounds like you’re more upset that Braddock beat you in some kind of mental game than you are with the idea that you—and your best friend—are going to die. It’s like it’s all some kind of bullshit macho thing that you can’t handle. Like you have to be the smartest guy on the playground or something.”

  She got up but couldn’t resist a parting shot.

  “Maybe if you weren’t so sad, you’d notice that I’m giving you a place to live and Lou’s trying to figure out a way to stay alive, and he’s not equipped for it. But you, who can out-think anyone, just sits here wallowing in self-pity.”

  “So, screw off, Monkton. You are a loser.”

  Chapter 16
/>   This is about a gang war, isn’t it?

  Cassidy and Lou were sitting on the back stoop watching the sun go down when the door opened behind them. Awkwardly Lou scrambled to his feet, Cassidy more agilely got to hers and they turned to face Monk in the doorway. The western sun cast a gold pallor to his skin. He’d removed the bandage and the scrape was scrubbed fresh and raw. His shoulder was crooked slightly to one side but he held his head rigid.

  “I came out here to talk to you both.” They watched him silently.

  “I’ve been... thinking about things. I won’t sugar coat it to either of you—we’re in serious trouble. Well, Lou and I are. Cassidy, you can leave before anyone knows about you; this isn’t your fight. But I think I know a way out of this. It won’t be easy, and we’ll possibly wind up dead anyway, but I think we can take Braddock down with us.”

  For several minutes, there was silence. Lou lit a pair of smokes and passed one to Cassidy. The sun moved a couple of degrees farther down the sky. Somewhere nearby a dog yelped and a faint flapping of laundered sheets was heard.

  Lou sucked in a drag of smoke and smiled. “Let’s kick his ass,” he said.

  “The sirloin, rare, baked potato.”

  “Same, but make mine well done.”

  “I’ll have the salad.”

  Lou and Monk stared at Cassidy. “What? A girl’s gotta keep her figure.”

  They sat at a table in Morton’s steak house, a fancy restaurant way beyond their standards. Thick white tablecloths, heavy cut glass goblets, silver so polished you could see your reflection. The waiter said “sir” and “ma’am” and they wore their best suits and dress. Lou had promised Cassidy a dance after the meal.

  “Just don’t try to weasel, pal,” she warned.

  After the salads Monk said, “We’ll need help with this.” He took out several pieces of paper from his jacket pocket and laid them on the table, pushing them toward Lou and Cassidy. “I’ve been reading, and a lot of things are beginning to make sense.”

  Lou looked. “Two private eyes are dead. Wally Zane? I knew him. And Tom Scutter. Him I don’t. Monk, what’s going on?”

  Cassidy added, “These say that three other private investigators are missing. Mario Caputo, Paul E. Smalls and uh,” she glanced at an earlier article, “Jefferson Davis Junior. Says he’s from the South side. Is he colored?”

  Monk nodded. “It seems that whatever is happening goes beyond the boundaries of race. Which may be a piece of the puzzle.”

  “What piece?” asked Cassidy. “What puzzle? What are we talking about? Thank you,” she said to the waiter who was busily putting thick white plates in front of them. He left and she added, “This is about a gang war, isn’t it?”

  “Yep,” agreed Monk. “It certainly is. Here’s what I think is happening.” He picked up a heavy steak knife and pointed with it. “First, Private Eyes are disappearing or dying, including one who’s colored. Second, Duke Braddock hires us to find his daughter, which puts us into conflict with mob gangs, including Rufus Black, who runs the colored gangs. The mob tries to kill us, traces us to Lou’s place and to mom’s house. How?”

  “Braddock told ‘em,” Lou muttered through a mouthful of prime beef. A trace of steak sauce was on his cheek. Absently, Cassidy dabbed at it with her napkin, an intimate gesture that surprised them both. She quickly looked down at her plate.

  “Right. Braddock told them.”

  Cassidy looked back up. “Sure. Braddock’s behind this; he said so.”

  “Yep,” Monk said. “When he threatened us, he wanted to brag. He wants to be a big shot and hand pick the next mayor. He thinks he’s some kind of...” Monk got a faraway look in his eyes and they paused, watching. Finally, he said, “The chessboard. He likes to move pieces around.”

  “So?” asked Cassidy.

  “So, nothing. Just an observation.” Sheepishly he began cutting his steak, paying attention to his baked potato, pouring salt and ketchup and pointedly not looking at anyone. The silence of chewing settled over the table.

  “More wine?” asked the waiter.

  “No thanks.”

  The clinking of silverware, the rustling of the linen, Lou dropped his fork.

  “Sorry.”

  The muted buzz of conversation at the other tables, silence at their own, from the other room a band tuning up.

  Cassidy set her napkin on the table. “I want to dance.”

  “Okay,” said Lou hastily. He got up quickly and took her hand. They left Monk sitting at the table, staring at nothing.

  “What’s with him?” Cassidy asked over the music.

  Lou dipped her before answering.

  “He gets like this when he’s thinking. Trust me; he’ll be better when we get back.”

  “He’d better,” she warned. “Or I’m not going back.”

  Monk was better. When they returned, flushed with exertion from the dance floor, he had newspaper articles spread all around the table.

  “You are a hell of a dancer.” Cassidy was smiling radiantly.

  “This is true.” Lou sat down. “Can we get coffee?”

  “Sure. Later. Look at this.” Monk passed across one of the articles. ‘Malcolm Warburton’ said a headline, ‘Running for mayor against incumbent Richard J. Daley.’

  Lou passed it to Cassidy. Both looked at it and at Monk.

  “Here’s another one.” He pushed another piece to them. ‘Gang tensions rising. Two found dead in alley. Suspected mob enforcers.’ “Here’s another.” ‘Shooting at South Side diner kills three.’ “And another.” ‘Warburton promises crackdown on crime.’

  “And finally,” ‘House burns down. Three dead inside. Police suspect arson.’

  “It’s all related. Braddock’s trying to get Warburton elected. He hired private eyes to bug the other gangs to promote gang violence and Warburton’s gonna be the new mayor on an anti-crime campaign.”

  “So,” said Cassidy.

  “Ditto,” said Lou. “What are we gonna do?”

  “We need those other PI’s.” He gathered up bits of paper. “Let’s see, Paul E. Smalls. Mario Caputo. Jefferson Davis, Junior. We have to find them and get them to help us.”

  “How? I mean, if they’re missing...?”

  “I have an idea about that,” said Monk.

  *

  Cassidy Adams didn’t think of herself as selfish but the phrase ‘what’s in it for me?’ crossed her mind sometimes. She was thinking it now as she listened to Lou and Monk argue about baseball. Lou was eating peaches from a can.

  “I’m going to take a bath,” she said, to no one in particular. She stood in the doorway for a moment, muttered, “men,” under her breath and huffed to the bathroom. She stripped, filled the tub, made bubbles, lit candles, arranged the towel just so and picked up a magazine. Cinema Stars with a cover article about Robert Mitchum. She lay back and considered whether Monk looked at all like the actor, squinting her eyes to give him the benefit, but decided he didn’t.

  Neither did Lou Fleener, more’s the pity. That’s when ‘what’s in it for me?’ came back with a vengeance. So, did ‘why in hell am I here?’ She tossed the magazine to the floor and thought about it.

  She liked Lou, really, she did. And she still felt bad—a little—about her let’s just be friends rush to judgment. It was heaven dancing with him, almost enough to make her forget his appearance. She regretted her own shallowness, forgave herself just as quickly and remembered Lou had gallantly saved her when the thugs had come.

  The truth was that her unsettled feelings kept her off balance. And off balance gave Lou Fleener a much better chance than he would have had in normal times.

  But these weren’t normal times, were they? Lou and Monk, for whom she was developing a certain fondness as well, had gotten themselves in a mess with the mob. Not just one faction either, oh no—that would have been too easy. But all the Chicago mobs. And the police too, if you considered they’d want to know about Monk’s house and the dead bodies in
it.

  Was there a future in this? She shied away from the word ‘profit’ because it was too cold blooded, but was there? Could Lou and Monk possibly get out of this mess alive?

  She moodily pushed bubbles around. No; probably not.

  Chapter 17

  How about a lot of money?

  “I need more money,” insisted Warburton, on the phone to Duke Braddock.

  Braddock instead answered, “You should have seen them! Beaten to a pulp, I had them thrown into a garage in Skokie. And with no broken bones; that was the brilliant part. That way, when Scolio gets them, or Cermak’s boys, there won’t be any evidence of prior injuries.” His voice was filled with self-admiration.

  Which Warburton didn’t hear, or didn’t care. “Did you hear me?” he asked.

  Apparently not. “This is working out better than I ever imagined, Malcolm. The papers are going nuts about the violence. I hear the Sun Times is doing a series and the Tribune had an editorial calling for the mayor to set up a task force.”

  “I need money because—”

  “A task-force!” Braddock crowed. “Is this a great country? Daley’s gotta be going crazy. The cops are blaming Scolio for the hit on Cermak, Cermak’s boys are squirming around trying to get reorganized.”

  “Because it takes a lot of money to run a mayoral campaign.”

  “And I can’t imagine what the coon’s doing, down there.”

  “Braddock,” Warburton demanded. “Braddock, Braddock, Braddock.”

  “What?” The reigning crime boss of Chicago stopped mid cackle.

  “I. Need. More. Money.”

  “What for?” asked Braddock, sensing the purpose of the call for the first time. He cradled the phone to his ear and touched the restored chess board, wondering what had happened to the white queen. Maybe it was under the sofa.

  “For bribes, Braddock. For pay-offs. For legitimate expenses like payroll and taxes and office supplies. Like—”

  “All right, all right, I get the idea. How much and when?”

  Warburton, on his end of the line, felt a moment of satisfaction. Finally. “Twenty-five thousand should do it.” He expected resistance and was surprised when Braddock agreed easily.