Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  “Fine. Got to spend money to make money, right?”

  “Right,” said Warburton. He should have asked for fifty.

  “Same method?”

  “Sure.”

  “We good?” asked Braddock.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good. Now let me tell you how I set up those two clowns.”

  *

  Adele Braddock stared at the mirror and cried. She looked, she decided bitterly, like a gross copy of Donna Reed or Barbara Anderson on ‘Father Knows Best.’ Two in the afternoon and she

  was wearing a dress with pearls because her husband expected it.

  Her husband the gangster.

  How had it all gone so bad, she wondered. What had she done to deserve this? Her eyes drifted and she saw herself twenty-five years ago when she was still Adele Speakman, of Des Plaines, Illinois, newly hired as a secretary. She’d been beautiful once, she remembered, beautiful and blonde and so very, very naive. When the dashing and roguish Ben Braddock was introduced as a businessman she never asked a single question. She was hooked by his car and his wealth and his wild lifestyle. Even his pencil thin mustache, trimmed to look like a gangster in one of the Cagney movies he liked had impressed her.

  A whirlwind romance had swept her off her feet, a formal church wedding and the years rolled on over her until she was here. When had she found out about him? Had she always known but never cared? Had he always had other women on the side or had he taken them only after he tired of her?

  She didn’t know. Sagging on the edge of the bed in her own bedroom—they had stopped sleeping together long ago—Adele knew it didn’t matter. She was trapped. Ben Braddock had become Duke Braddock the mobster. He’d never allow her to leave and he’d never want her either.

  She went to the small den where the television lurked behind doors of ornate carved oak. She opened the doors and picked up the TV Guide and switched it on. Lucille Ball was on the cover—everybody loved Lucy—and the set warmed up. ‘Guiding Light’, Adele’s favorite. Only on television did she find loneliness greater than her own.

  They had maids; appearances demanded it, but they spoke only Spanish. Adele saw them watching her, the pitying looks and embarrassed silences, and she tried to ignore them.

  Adele watched ‘Gunsmoke’ and ‘Bonanza’ but Milton Berle left her cold. She adored the Ed Sullivan show, though he was so stiff. She sat on the sofa and ate too much and drank too much and cried too often.

  She drifted quietly around the enormous castle Ben had installed her in and watched what went on and always, always, waited for someone to come and rescue her.”

  *

  Cassidy listened to the sound of snoring. She tiptoed though the apartment like a ghost, picking up a blouse, some shoes, her jeans, stockings, stuffing clothing into a cloth laundry bag. She’d come back later when she knew they were gone. Until then, these would have to do.

  She grabbed her purse as she padded barefoot to the front door, reached for the handle and swallowed her gum when a quiet voice said, “You leaving?”

  A light came on—her table lamp, she thought in annoyance, and Monk was there, sitting cross legged next to the chair, like some lunatic Indian or something. Anger and guilt and a lump in her throat made Cassidy turn on him. “I’m leaving,” she hissed. “Out the door, out of here, out of this crazy plan.”

  “Shhh,” Monk advised. “You’ll wake up Lou.”

  “So?” But she lowered her voice. “What do you want from me?”

  “We need you, Cassidy,” Monk admitted. “I’m beginning to get a plan and I’ll need your help.”

  “Why should I help you? You broke into my apartment, dragged me into this thing of yours, why should I help?”

  “Because you like Lou?”

  That stopped her. She did like him, the lug, especially when he took her dancing. She’d never felt like she did when he was turning her around the floor.

  She sighed, remembering his arm on her back, the feel of... “No,” she said harshly. “That’s not enough.”

  “Where would you go?” Monk tried. “The mob’s bound to find out about you, sooner or later.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” although this did shake her confidence a little. How could they find her? They couldn’t. Of course, how did they find Lou and Monk? She stood in the dim apartment and listened to Lou sawing away in there. In the few days, he’d been here she’d realized he could sleep soundly anytime. And at this particular moment; she found that aggravating.

  “What else you got?” she asked.

  “How about money?” Monk got up from the floor with a swiveling motion, a long-legged cork screw. He leaned forward like a conspirator. “A lot of money.” He turned and went into the kitchen. Cassidy could hear him in there, rinsing a glass, opening a bottle, pouring it. She felt the heat in the apartment, the stillness all around.

  “Yeah,” she said to herself. “That’ll work.” She turned and carried her things back to the bedroom.

  Chapter 18

  First, we need a place to hide

  “Somewhere they won’t think of looking for us.”

  “Where would that be?” Lou was stretching by standing against the bedroom door, arms outstretched, flexing his fingers. Always quick to heal, he was feeling better already.

  “The Hilton,” Monk said.

  Lou cracked a knuckle, a loud snap in the suddenly quiet room. “Sorry. How? What do we do for money? Are you crazy?”

  Cassidy sat up, looking very interested and Monk said, “I’ve thought this out. The mobs are looking for second rate PI’s. The cops are staking out our places and Cassidy’s the only one of us who can show a face without somebody ratting us out. So, we’ll go where they don’t expect us. The Hilton.”

  “They won’t let us in,” objected Lou, “dressed like this.”

  “We’ll get new clothes, suitcases, the works.”

  “How’ll we get there?” Cassidy asked, thinking, “the Hilton? Wow.”

  “We’ll hire a Limo.”

  “What’ll we use for money?” It was obvious that Cassidy was the cynic of the group, always seeing why things couldn’t be done. That was balanced by Monk who was keenly optimistic and Lou who didn’t care.

  “We go to the bank.”

  “You’ve got that kind of money? To stay at the Hilton? Good clothes? A limo?”

  Lou said, “Since when?”

  “I have enough for a week or so. Then we get more.”

  The First Federal Savings Bank was on the corner of LaSalle and Milwaukee. Monk knew there would be someone watching it. If they had found his house, they would surely stake out his bank. That’s what he’d do, so he figured the mobs would do it too.

  So, the problem was getting in and making a withdrawal without being seen and shot.

  “The back way?” asked Lou.

  “I don’t know. Wouldn’t they have that covered?”

  “I suppose. So what else?”

  “We do the Hilton idea first. We’ll look rich before we go in.”

  “Great idea. And how do we afford that?”

  “Oh, Cassidy?” Monk sang.

  “What?” She’d been in the kitchen, half listening, still waffling on whether to stay or go.

  “I need some money.” Monk got up to join her. “Why look at me?”

  “Not a lot. Just enough to get a Limo on account and some good clothes.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Please?”

  “It’s my rent money.”

  “You’ll get it back.” Lou entered the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “With interest,” Monk added.

  Lou grinned over the cup. “Trust us.”

  They began the war with Braddock by shopping at Lew Casterman’s Fine Men’s Wear. Monk wore his best suit which was disdained by Lew Casterman’s salesman as soon as he and Cassidy entered the shop. But the interest rose when Cassidy announced, “We want your best suit,” and Monk a
dded, “Price is no object.”

  Cassidy frowned at him and smiled widely at the salesman. “Right,” she said. “No object.”

  Four hours later they walked out, Monk dressed in a fine tweed suit complete with a Homburg hat and a plum colored ascot. He wanted a walking stick but Cassidy put her foot down.

  At the Limo office he said, “For two weeks,” and selected an enormous black Cadillac Sedan Deville with dark tinted windows. “I’ll need to go to my bank to arrange the funds,” he explained and the obvious wealth indicated by his suit hooked them completely.

  Would the gentlemen and his lovely secretary like a ride there?

  “We would,” Monk said happily. “We most certainly would.”

  And back to the First Federal Savings Bank. Monk directed the driver to an open spot in front of the wide brass double doors, instructing him to wait. He and Cassidy emerged from the rear of the Limo, making a point of being obvious. He stopped to talk with her on the street before entering.

  “Think they’ve seen us yet?” she asked. It was hard to keep from staring around, knowing that hidden spies were probably watching them.

  “I certainly hope so.” Monk adjusted his cuffs.

  “Shall we?” They entered the bank and went to the manager’s office.

  “May I help you?” The bank manager was a vice president, used to dealing with the wealthy and though he’d never met this particular gentleman before, he was eager to the point of deference.

  “You may,” Cassidy said efficiently. Her role as private secretary was easy after being in the typing pool—just look efficient and bored. “Mr. Monkton wishes to close his account.”

  “Oh?” The manager looked concerned. “Is there a problem?”

  “Of course not,” Monk said quietly. “I merely have an opportunity that requires certain cash assets.”

  “I see, sir. Of course. Let me just get the girl.” Ten minutes later a much cooler manager handed over twenty-six hundred dollars in cash and nearly pushed them out the door.

  In the car Cassidy said, “Twenty-six hundred, huh? Big time.”

  “It’ll be enough.” To the driver he said, “Downtown Hilton, please.”

  Chapter 19

  “He’s going to make a political contribution...”

  Back to Lew Casterman’s Fine Men’s Wear.

  Clothes for Lou, then a trip to Michigan Avenue where the shopping began in earnest.

  “I’m not going to be your secretary,” Cassidy sputtered. “I’m going to be your wife.”

  “We can’t afford it,” Monk said futilely. “The car was four hundred for the month. My suit and Lou’s, there’s another two hundred. The Hilton’s going to cost us—”

  “Enough,” said Cassidy. “I’ll do your errands. I’ll help with whatever scam you’re planning. I’ll probably get shot. But if I’m going to die, I’m doing it in good clothes. For once in my life I’m going to look good.”

  “You look great,” Lou said.

  “Shut up, Lou.”

  Sighing, Monk pulled the limo up in front of Bon Marche, Chicago’s finest woman’s clothing store where a man in a military style uniform charged forward and held the door. Monk got out and handed him the keys. Wearily he followed her into the store and began the longest eight hours of his life. They entered the suite at the Hilton with the wary suspicion of jungle natives discovering Times Square.

  “It’s nice,” said Monk.

  “It’s huge,” said Lou.

  “Oh my God.” Cassidy stepped into the entry foyer and stared into the rooms beyond. Rooms! “It’s gorgeous.” She reached out a tentative hand to finger the plush wallpaper.

  Monk tipped the bellman a ten spot and the man cheerfully began placing new suitcases on the beds.

  Cassidy ran off through a pair of French doors, squealing with delight at every new discovery. “There’s a spa tub,” she called out. “And a sofa in the bedroom. And a television. And a radio.” Music suddenly filled the air. Squawks and hisses and something orchestral and soothing.

  “There’s a balcony!” She came back into the sitting room, flushed with glee. “I’ve only seen something like this in the magazines. Like where Clark Gable lives, or Lana Turner. My God, this is like a fairy tale come true.”

  She spun and raced off to another room.

  They settled into separate bedrooms, Cassidy in one, Lou and Monk in another. At six Cassidy made them get dressed up and herded them down the elevators and through the huge gilded lobby to a French theme restaurant named Le Hipomage e Fromage. One person led them to a table, another person gave them a wine menu, another served them salads, still another poured them water, another placed warm sour smelling bread on the table and finally a skinny guy in a black suit and a pencil thin mustache arrived to take their order.

  “I am Henri,” he said, pronouncing it ‘On-Ree.’ He handed thick leather books to Lou and Monk but not Cassidy. “I weel be your servair thees evening.”

  Cassidy, smiling radiantly, she was wearing one of her new dresses; a low cut tight sheath that she said reminded her of Gina Lollobrigida. “From the movies,” she said to their blank stares. “La Dolce Vita?”

  “No,” Lou said, and Monk agreed.

  “Where’s my menu?” grumbled Cassidy.

  “You don’t get one,” Monk informed her.” This is a fancy place and your husband orders for you.”

  “How will you know what I want?”

  “We’re married,” Monk said. “I should know, after all.”

  Henri returned, looking somehow superior, demanding their orders.

  “We’re not ready yet,” Lou said firmly.

  “Veery well.” Henri turned on a continental heel and vanished. Lou handed over a menu and Cassidy began reading.

  “There’s no prices here,” she whispered.

  “That’s all right. Order whatever you want.”

  “How can we afford it? I thought you said we’re broke.”

  “We are.” Monk sipped at his wine glass and pursed his lips, tasting the flavor of what the wine list guy had seriously said was, “a fine Bordeaux with a frisky charm.” It tasted better than the house red at Sammy’s, he supposed. But at nine dollars a bottle, it should.

  “Let’s eat and I’ll explain.”

  Cassidy grinned that teenager smile again and disappeared behind the menu. When she came up she said, “I’d like the Saxony Chicken. Would you order it for me?”

  “Sure,” said Lou. “But am I your husband, or is he?”

  Cassidy ducked her head and smiled demurely through her lashes. “Why gentlemen,” she cooed. “Whichever you want.”

  After the best meal they’d ever eaten, with the remains of a second bottle of wine—a saucy little Cabernet with great legs—Lou said, “this is great. But explain. How do we afford it?”

  Monk waved and whispered to Henri who left and brought back yet another man, this one carrying a humidor as if it was the crown jewels of England. Lou and Monk selected a pair of Cuban Esmeralda’s, earning an, “excellent choice, sairs” from Henri. They clipped and twirled and lit and puffed the way they saw other well-dressed men doing at other tables. Cassidy took out a cigarette and still another person appeared at her side with a gold lighter and an ash tray.

  “Thank you.” To Monk she said, “So spill. What are we doing?”

  “Tomorrow,” Monk said—puff— “we’re going to visit,”—puff, make sucking noises, exhale— “a local mayoral candidate.” Puff. He sat back and waited with a certain cheery smugness.

  “Warburton,” said Lou.

  “Warburton,” grinned Cassidy. Her cigarette didn’t put out the same level of smog that the cigars did but she was gamely trying.

  “Warburton,” said Monk. “He’s going to donate.

  Chapter 20

  How about McDonald’s?

  Monday morning saw them in much less extravagant clothing than the night before. Lou and Monk were back in normal working clothes; tan slacks white sh
irts, old fedoras. Each wore a light jacket to conceal a gun. Cassidy dressed as if for work in a skirt and blouse with a faux tie that made her look adorably sexy.

  “You wear that to a steno pool?” asked Lou, admiring.

  “Not the tie.” She posed in front of a floor to ceiling mirror. “Is it too much?”

  “Not for me.” Lou grinned and she stuck out her tongue.

  Monk came in the room with a .38, its cylinder open. He was clumsily pushing stubby bullets in it. “We ready to go?”

  “Yep.”

  “Sure.”

  “We should go out the backway, I think.” “I checked out the service elevator. You can take it to the basement and go out through the loading docks. That’s the best way if we don’t want to be seen.”

  “Right. I’ll move the limo around and meet you near Warburton’s campaign headquarters. You know where it is?”

  “Yes, mother,” Lou said. Monk had gone through this in painful detail last night. Twice he woke up and started talking until Lou threatened him with violence.

  “Got the case with our good clothes?”

  Lou held up a small red valise. They stood by the door, looking at each other for a moment, Lou nodded and they went out. The elevator had thick padding blankets covering the walls, a far cry from the elegance of the rest of the hotel. Lou pressed B1 and the doors closed. “Well,” he said. “Let the war begin.”

  “Is this really going to work?” Cassidy asked.

  “Dunno. We’ll find out soon. Nervous?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  They wandered through several grey concrete tunnels before finding the exit, and walked out past huge reeking dumpsters filled with trash. Monk drove the limo to the nearby lot where Lou had left Monk’s Bel-Air. He and Cassidy got out and waved when Monk drove away. Cassidy chain smoked and Lou listened to Dick Biondi screaming on WLS until they reached an address on the near north side. They parked a block away to watch the door. Fifteen minutes later Monk opened the door suddenly and Cassidy shrieked in surprise.