“How do you greet a lawyer with an IQ of 50? ‘Good morning your honor!”
“Back my...”
“How do you know if a lawyer is well hung?”
“HOW?” Bellowed the audience.
“When you can’t fit your fingers between the rope and his neck!” The drummer was going crazy with drum shots, the crowd was howling and Paul E. continued to tug.
“God damn...”
“What do you call an honest lawyer?”
“WHAT?”
“An impossibility!”
“...Arm, you psycho!” Paul E. yelled.
But Buddy had the crowd and wasn’t about to let go. He pulled Paul E. closer in a bear hug and yelled into the mike, “Why won’t a shark attack a lawyer?”
The crowd bellowed “WHY?”
“Professional courtesy!” What fun they were having. The barmaids had stopped serving to laugh with the crowd. Buddy had never had such a response. “How do you get a lawyer out of a tree?”
“HOW?”
“Cut the rope!”
“What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?”
“WHAT?”
“One’s a slimy disgusting bottom feeder—the other’s just a fish!” The crowd had begun to chant ‘Buddy! Buddy! Buddy!” and Paul E. felt the beginnings of panic.
“Do you know,” Buddy yelled at the crowd, “how to save a drowning lawyer?”
“HOW?”
“Take your foot off his head!”
“Do you know...?”
Paul E. shot him. Buddy Hackbarth howled and let go. He pulled his foot up and hopped around, blood pouring from his sock. The drummer, uncomprehending, hit the drum again as the crowd bellowed for more.
“Just part of the show, folks! It’s all part of the show.” Paul E. shouted. He shoved Buddy Hackbarth aside and darted from the stage, knocking past two bouncers who turned to follow. He made it to a dark corridor and shoved the gun at them when they reached him. They lumbered to a stop.
“Now,” Paul E. said. “Did you hear the one about the safe...?”
*
Monk wore his usual suit like a disguise. He knew that the mobs were looking for him, just as he knew that the Hilton was a refuge because they weren’t expected there. But tonight, he wanted to be noticed. Because tonight was when it got personal.
He walked into the Bellagio Restaurant as if he belonged there. The concierge, seeing his older suit and appraising it correctly, made a pass at stopping him but Monk pushed him away. He scanned the room and saw what he wanted. At a corner booth, reserved for his personal use, sat Duke Braddock.
Monk walked quickly, knowing pursuit would be along soon. He darted between tables until he reached the booth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the .38 special Lou had given him.
“Mr. Braddock?” he asked politely.
Braddock looked up and his face contorted when he saw the gun. His eyes moved up the arm and to Monk’s face and his eyes widened. “You!” he said.
“Surprise,” Monk said. His voice croaked a little on the first syllable but he recovered quickly. The other diners at the table looked up in various degrees of understanding.
“What’s going on?”
“What is this?”
“Who is this guy?”
“Dukie? I’m scared.” This from a skinny blonde in a tight dress, window dressing for the successful businessman.
“Don’t move” Monk waved the gun around in a small circle and they quieted. To Braddock he said, “Don’t call for your muscle. I know they’re here. If they come, I’ll kill you.”
“You’re a dead man,” Braddock said, almost too quietly to hear. It seemed he was having trouble keeping his two worlds apart; the sophisticated businessman was being confronted by the enemies of the thug. His jaw clenched tightly.
“I know that,” Monk agreed. “But not just yet. I came to give you something, Dukie.”
“What is that?”
“A notice. Starting tonight, we are at war with you. You’ll know soon enough what we mean.”
“Who’s we? What are you talking about?”
“We’re the dead men, Dukie.” He jutted the gun forward. “Now, I’d like you to empty your pockets please.”
To his credit, Braddock remained calm. “No. Shoot me if you want but I won’t give you shit.”
Monk sighed. “Fine. I’ll shoot these other people. Starting with the fat one,” the man gasped and sputtered. “Then the girl who obviously isn’t your wife.”
“All right.” Braddock reached for his wallet and tossed it on the table. The others followed suit.
“The watches and jewelry, as well.”
Braddock glared as if looks alone could kill. “You will die for this. I will personally see you torn limb from limb. I will hunt you down and—”
“Stop, Mr. Braddock. I’m sure you mean what you’re saying, but you’ll have to find me first. And there’s already a bounty on me after our last meeting. There’s not much more you can do in the way of threats.”
“I can kill your family.”
“Already dead, Dukie. You’re too late. So, I’ll just take these,” he scooped up the glittering pile, “and be on my way. But don’t worry; I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
He turned to leave, but came back. “Oh; and one more thing. You threatened my family, so I’ll threaten yours.” Braddock sneered and was about to speak. Monk continued. “Not your wife. I know how you feel about her. If you come after me, I’ll go after your daughter. What is she, Mr. Braddock? Eight? It would be a shame if anything happened to her.”
“What are you talking about? What daughter?”
“Your daughter Amanda Braddock. Surely you don’t want any harm to come to your only daughter.” Monk spun around and ran from the restaurant. Behind him he heard a shout but he was already at the door. He raced around the corner to the parking lot, leaped into the rear of the limo and shouted, “Drive!” with as much passion as he’d ever said anything.
In response, Cassidy slowly maneuvered the large car away from the curb. She paused at the corner where three big guys were scanning everything, hands inside their jackets, eyes darting. She rolled down the window. “Excuse me, fellows. Can you let me by?”
The gunmen looked at her, looked at the car, and looked at each other.
Finally, like a small herd of cattle or the Red Sea, they parted.
From the back seat where he was cloaked in the shadows, Monk said, “that was the most fun I have ever had.”
Chapter 33
And we keep it
Oh, what a party they were having. It was four in the morning and nobody wanted to sleep. Mario Caputo, thoroughly disliked by everyone, was being listened to as he told them about his daring store robbery. Even Cassidy, wide eyed and swaying from the effects of champagne, smiled at him with a grim sort of tolerance.
They had filtered back to the suite in ones and twos, sneaking in from the service elevator, and piled their loot on the big cherry table in the foyer where the guest book was usually kept for guests who actually belonged here. Brown paper bags mingled with stacks of wallets. Gold and silver watches and shiny tiaras spilled off onto the elegant marble floor.
Jefferson Davis was alone on the settee wearing a big grin as if he hadn’t believed—not really—that this could work. Paul E. Smalls and Lou Fleener were drinking beers and swapping lies. “And then he said, ‘did you hear the one about?’—and I shot him!”
Lou spat out his beer. “You shot him?” He slapped the bottle down and it tipped over, spilling onto the carpet. Housekeeping was going to have a stroke. Monk was reminded to make a larger cash deposit.
“In the foot,” agreed Paul E. casually, as if that was what anyone would do.
Cassidy’s eyes kept returning to the pile of loot.
This wasn’t the big one, she knew. Monk had said two million and this wasn’t even close. Still, the jewelry sure was pretty. She felt like a magpie, attracte
d by the shiny stuff.
Mario Caputo said loudly, “I had to pistol whip the nig...” but his voice trailed off as the party crashed into silence. Jefferson, on the couch, watched him with a flat expression that said he’d heard it before from people just as stupid.
Lou said “hey, man; sorry.” and the others just looked hangdog. It was one thing to live with racism all around; you could ignore it and go about your business. But to hear it so nakedly, about a man you were working with—jaws were clenched and shoulders slumped with shame.
Jefferson said, “S’all right. He don’t bother me. I met a lot worse bigot than him back in the war.”
“You were in the war?” asked Paul E. in an obvious attempt at peacekeeping. “The big one?”
“Double-U, Double-U Two,” said Jefferson, in his soft voice. They were all struck by the fact that he was older than they were, the product of a different time and wholly different life. Brief uncomfortable thoughts about being in his shoes filled them and they desperately sought a way out.
Jefferson added. “We weren’t integrated, like now. Back then a black man couldn’t eat in the mess hall, couldn’t drink out a white man’s faucet, couldn’t take a shit—pardon me, ma’am—in the barracks toilet. We had a urinal on the back wall. Outside.” He looked at them all with a lizard’s lazy eye. “But we fought Hitler just as hard as you white boys—and got just as dead.”
“I didn’t mean nothing,” said Mario, finally realizing his mistake.
“Your kind never do,” said Jefferson.
“The hell you mean ‘my kind’?” Caputo had risen to his feet, one hand twitching slightly toward his coat.
“Kind that shoots a man for talking. Mean kind of man. I never known if your kind was mean because you’re a racist or if you be just plain mean.”
“Why you son of a—”
Lou got up slowly and stood in front of Mario.
“Shut up, now. You’ve done enough damage.” He put out a hand to push him back and Mario came up with the gun. Without a pause Lou Fleener swiped it out of his hand so fast Caputo never saw him move. One moment he was reaching for a gun, the next it was being pointed at him. He stared at Lou and breathed heavily.
“I heard you were fast,” he said slowly. His eyes never left the barrel of the gun.
Jefferson said, “You don’t have to help me.”
“I’m not,” Lou said. “I’m doing this for me.”
“You think you can get away with this, Lou?” asked Caputo.
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“You put that gun down, you won’t look so tough.”
“That’s true. I never look tough.” He set the pistol on the table next to him. “But I am tough anyway.”
For a moment Mario appeared as if he might actually do something. He stared, the room waited, Lou stood casually and Jefferson returned to watching the white man.
“It ain’t worth it,” Caputo said. “Not now, anyway.”
“Not ever, Mario.”
Cassidy interrupted, “Boys, let’s open our presents.”
She dumped an armload of stuff on the table, spilling another pair of Pabst Blue Ribbon’s. Nobody even tried to pick them up.
“Look here,” Cassidy insisted while tensions eased and eyes turned to the pile before them. Cassidy opened a bag which contained a lot of crumpled bills. In another were more blocks of cash. More money, two pairs of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, a couple of heavy gold watches and finally, Duke Braddock’s wallet.
Monk came over and took that. He opened it and rifled through, pulling out a piece of plastic. “Diner’s Club.” He held it up.
“What is it?”
“One of those new credit cards. Here’s another. American Express.” Monk shook his head. Cash seemed a better idea. He lifted the wallet so everybody could see it. “This is what matters, gentlemen. Used to be that enemies would seek out trophies to prove they’d bested their foes. We have here a trophy—our enemies’ identification, stolen in the heat of battle. We have counted coup.”
Mostly they didn’t quite get that, what with the amount of alcohol and educational limits, but the meaning was clear; war had been declared and they’d won the first round.”
*
Duke Braddock remained shockingly calm. It was as if he couldn’t feel anything but an icy clarity, a singleness of purpose. He felt cleansed and cool and determined. Dion Monkton was going to die. Very soon and very slowly, and with all his friends watching.
In the meantime, he made phone calls and gave instructions and paced around his study as if nothing at all had happened. His wallet stolen was not a problem; he could replace it in a heartbeat. His guests had been sent home with reassurances that their losses would be covered.
The young blonde had succumbed to hysteria and made a scene which was captured by a press photographer. Braddock had heard the snap of the Speed Graphic and seen the light of the flashbulb. This would be in tomorrow’s paper for sure if he couldn’t call in favors quickly.
Then the real news arrived. In call after panicked call, Duke Braddock was informed that he’d been hit. The Thousand Oaks robbed of its receipts. The Casino on Halstead, the South side store, Ollie’s Ribs. All of them more than they seemed, all of them owned in various ways, by Duke Braddock.
How could they know? All his places were hidden from view. All of them were protected and all of them had been hit. Somebody knew something and had talked. It made him furious to think that anyone in his organization would sell him out, but that had to be the answer.
He kicked at a brass flower bowl left by a decorator and thought, how could they do this? Hadn’t the lesson with Milt been enough? He met failure with extreme punishment; it was supposed to work. The telephone rang again and Braddock paused, fearing more bad news. He steeled himself. Whatever it was he could handle it.
“Hello?” he said, proud of the pleasant tone. No one could guess he was seething inside, ready to kill, ready to tear the heart out of somebody.
“Mr. Braddock?” It was a manager at his club, the restaurant where the night’s...unpleasantness...had begun. Whitman or Whitacre or Rollins... something.
“What?” To an underling Braddock didn’t bother with voice control.
“Sir, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Braddock jerked his attention back to the phone.
His fingers tightened. “What?”
“Your car sir; it’s gone.”
Braddock was confused. What car? He’d been driven home in a hired coach after the police finished getting his very evasive statement. Two pushy detectives had appeared on the scene as if by magic. He remembered; he’d driven the Lincoln down. He’d been planning to sneak out with Rhoda, the hysteric actress, someplace private. His car!
“What do you mean, it’s gone?”
“Stolen sir. During the commotion, someone made off with your Continental.” The man sounded abased with regret, as if he’d drawn the short straw and had to make this call. ‘Don’t kill me,’ the tone suggested, ‘I’m only the messenger.’ Out loud he said, “Sir? Did you hear me? Someone’s stolen your Lincoln.”
Duke Braddock set down the phone gently, as if it was a most delicate piece of fine china. Monkton. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, counted to ten, and cursed softly for ten minutes, vowing an extraordinary revenge. But he completely forgot about the photographs. And Monk’s cryptic comment about his daughter.
Chapter 34
Then we betray everybody else
On Tuesday Cassidy took a break from her new life of crime to have lunch. She hired a taxi to bring her to an elegant restaurant in the lobby of a plaza hotel on Michigan Avenue with a view of the lake across Lake Shore Drive. To the south she could see the bulky domed shape of the new Shedd Aquarium, itself on the water.
She was early and had a cool ice tea to ease the heat. The waiter stayed near but obsequious, never demanding, always available. Heaven must be like this, she decided, full of attentive men
who didn’t push.
“Barbara!” Adele Braddock walked across the room, at ease but timid, as if she once belonged but was now out of fashion. She sat down, casting furtive glances all around. “How lovely to see you. What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Ice tea.”
“Oh my, no. We must have something stronger.”
The faintest flicker of a finger and the waiter appeared, almost bending over himself to serve. Clearly Adele knew how to play the game. Still, there was something about the way she held herself, as if she thought she was being spied on, that made Cassidy want to turn around and look as well. And Cassidy had more reasons.
She decided she was being silly. Who could be looking for her? And how would they ever find her here, dressed like this? She decided to enjoy the afternoon.
The day was bright with sunshine, the women who paraded by on the Avenue were like swans wrapped in rainbows. The colors seemed sharp and invigorating. Even the Lobster salads, when they arrived, appeared to be fresher, more fragrant than any food she’d ever tasted. The tea had been replaced with a wonderful white wine with bubbles that made her want to giggle.
“How’s the television?” she asked.
“It’s wonderful. I’m so glad you called.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t go out much.”
“Don’t you and your husband...?”
“Never. He doesn’t have much to do with me.” Cassidy had never had girlfriends, so she’d never gossiped or discussed men with anyone. Besides, what was there to tell? They lied and cheated, the best of them, and at worst ran off with Leroy, the assistant manager of the Gold Dust Casino, though that was perhaps a more specific than general complaint.
“That’s too bad,” she said.
Adele seemed accepting. She shrugged, “He’s busy. Has his business, his own life. I just got sort of left behind. That’s life, I guess.”
“Shouldn’t be.” Cassidy thought that life should be like this, all the time. A carnival of new events, colors and sensations every minute. She was becoming a luxury junkie and again decided she didn’t understand. “You’ve got everything else though, right? The money, cars, a great house... the money.”
Missing Amanda Page 19