AHMM, October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Okay, L.T., but you and the boys don't listen in. It tears me up when a dame starts crying.” He took the instrument and got the switchboard downstairs.

  Canal, who never wore a watch, took hold of McReary's wrist and read his Timex. “So what do we do for six hours?"

  The lieutenant took a deck of cards out of the drawer in the nightstand and shuffled. “Maybe Burke'll get lucky and win a new shirt."

  * * * *

  "Looks just like his picture, don't he?” McReary said.

  Burke nodded. “Them shutterbugs in Records are the best in the business. I never laid eyes on Rita Hayworth, but I bet she looks less Rita Hayworthy in the flesh than on the wall in Canal's toilet."

  "Shows how much you know, smart guy. Toilet's down the hall. I share it with the whole third floor."

  The chipped Bakelite radio in Admissions—bound with Air Corps-issue duct tape and stenciled property of wayne county jail—was playing Arthur Godfrey, a repeat broadcast; most of the talent was in the USO with Jolson. They watched Zagreb swap manacles with a sheriff's deputy, officially assuming custody of Edward Ilyich Karpalov, a k a Eddie the Karp and a host of other names: former bootlegger, ex-bankrobber, and cop-killer for all time.

  "What do we call this guy?” McReary asked. “He's got more aliases than—"

  "—Clara Bow's got crabs,” finished Canal.

  "Who's Clara Bow?"

  "Before your time, rook.” Burke and Canal spoke together. “Movie star, I bet. Don't you guys ever go to a ballgame?"

  Burke scowled. “Bunch of Four-F shirking—"

  "So what do we call him?"

  "How about DOA?” Canal unholstered his .38, spun the cylinder, and put it back.

  * * * *

  McReary was right. The man in the two-hundred-dollar suit—wrinkled from long storage—was as cadaverous and swarthy under his prison pallor as he looked in his picture. It took a photographer of uncommon skill to capture his absolute absence of expression without erasing his features altogether.

  If only his vocabulary were as bland as his face.

  "What's with the bracelets? I'm an innocent man, judge said.” He had a thin voice with a cellblock rasp.

  "Wear ‘em while you can, Eddie,” Zagreb said. “I still owe two payments."

  "I hope you birds got me a lower berth. Riding in trains makes me puke."

  Zagreb said, “We took up a collection and bought you a first-class compartment. Otherwise the marshals won't know where the puke left off and you started."

  "Go ahead, crack wise. I'm gonna get me the best lawyer in Rooshia and sue all you flatfeet for false imprisonment, clear up to J. Edgar. Come back home on the Queen Mary."

  "Drop us a card before you board. We'll tell the U-boats you're on the way. There must be one commander with a brother walking a beat in Berlin.” Zagreb, cuffed to him by the wrists, nearly jerked his arm out of its socket heading for the exit.

  When they were all in the Chrysler, Karpalov sandwiched in the backseat between McReary and the lieutenant, Canal riding shotgun, Burke stomped on the starter and threw in the clutch, stripping the gears. He was a better driver than that, but he hated the car. “I had a Russian lawyer once. My first wife got the house and the dog and I got half a carton of cigarettes."

  "Chesterfields, I hope.” Zagreb lit one one-handed.

  "No dice. One of them Injun reservation brands, they don't charge tax. But I got no beef. That damn dog ate a good pair of Florsheims."

  "How would I know how things are over there?” Karpalov said. “I was in diapers when I left."

  "Shoot a cop in Moscow, you'll be in diapers when you get out.” Canal blew cigar smoke over the back of the seat, gassing McReary also. He opened a window.

  Burke said, “Wrong. They walk you down a hall in Lubyanka, only you don't get to the end of the hall. Say what you like about the Commies, they don't have the storage problem we have here."

  "Wiseacres. I imagine they got a black market there too. I'll make a killing."

  "Poor choice of words.” Zagreb jerked up his arm, splitting the prisoner's lip with the edge of his own handcuff.

  "Cripes!” He threw a free hand to his mouth, smearing blood. “You're supposed to deliver me in one piece."

  Zagreb took out a document printed on heavy stock and passed it across him to McReary. “Read me the part where it says we got to."

  McReary handed it back without unfolding it, grazing Karpalov's mouth on the way; he sucked in breath sharply through his teeth. “Doesn't say."

  They had their choice of parking spaces by the great gaunt brick barn of the Michigan Central Depot, another structure predating Women's Suffrage. “Sure the trains run this late?” Karpalov kept touching his lower lip, which was puffing up like a handful of boiled rice.

  Zagreb said, “Only the specials. You're riding with boxcars of bullets from the Chrysler plant."

  "Jeez, hope you don't hit a bump.” Canal patted back a yawn.

  A diesel sat on the tracks, looking sleek as a destroyer, with a passenger coach behind it and then a chain of freight cars stretching into an infinity of darkness where the station lights failed. As the four men approached flanking the man in their charge, two men in blue business suits, one tall and thin and sallow, the other shorter and broad and deeply tanned, came toward them across the platform, each holding a leather folder open showing star-shaped badges. They wore their hats at opposite angles, making a V for victory. “Zagreb? I'm Deputy Marshal Rudnicki. This is Deputy Marshal Cash. We're here for Karpalov.” The short broad one spoke in clipped government tones.

  "Are you? I thought you were here for the tulip festival."

  Burke glanced around. “Where're your horses?"

  "That gets funnier every time. Take the cuffs off, please.” Rudnicki produced a pair of his own.

  "Not till you sign this. I don't want him coming back stamped Return to Sender.'” Zagreb held out the document.

  Rudnicki hesitated, peering at Karpalov. “He looks used."

  "Accident. People drive like maniacs since the war. Too many women behind the wheel."

  "My sister flies cargo planes for the Navy.” Cash, the thin one, had a honking New York accent.

  "We need more of her on the ground."

  Rudnicki juggled the handcuffs and the paper in one hand and took out a fat fountain pen. A gust of wind rattled the sheet just as he got the cap off. Zagreb said, “Use Cash. He looks sturdy."

  Cash turned and bent with his hands on his knees while his partner spread the document on his back. He started to write.

  "Hold on!"

  This was a new voice, belonging to a fat man with 1930's lapels waddling their way from the direction of the station. He was clutching a battered hat to his head with one hand and waving an envelope with the other. When six handguns pointed his way he braked to a halt, nearly falling on his face from the momentum.

  "Don't shoot! I'm Winston Sweet, with the legal firm of Roylston, Ryker, and Reed. I have a court order enjoining you from remanding Edward Ilyich Karpalov into U.S. custody pending investigation of his immigration status."

  "Roylston, Ryker, and Reed.” Zagreb kept his revolver trained on the newcomer. “Never heard of ‘em."

  "Must've met in the same homeroom,” Canal said.

  "It's all very legal. We have evidence Mr. Karpalov was born a U.S. citizen, in Cleveland."

  Burke said, “That's no improvement over Moscow."

  "Take a look, Mac. You studied law."

  McReary put away his weapon, took the envelope, and opened it, turning the paper toward the light. “Three weeks of night school says it's the McCoy. Signed by Judge Springer."

  "Spring ‘em Springer.” The 1ieutenant rammed his .38 back under his arm. “The mook that acquitted him. This your lawyer, Eddie?"

  Karpalov grinned, starting his lip bleeding again. “I don't know him from Baby Snooks. But if it means I get to stay, he gets all my business from now on."

  "Who's payin
g the bill?” Zagreb asked Sweet.

  "That's privileged."

  "Well, he's government property now. Take it up with Cashnicki and Rudd."

  "That's Rudnicki and Cash.” The short broad marshal smiled. “No dice, Lieutenant. I didn't finish signing the receipt.” He gave it back. “Guess we'll take in those tulips after all."

  "Joke's on you. They're out of season."

  Canal snatched a look at McReary's watch. “Nuts. Day's fifteen minutes old and already it's shot to hell."

  * * * *

  Judge Vernon Springer had been a prosecutor under Mayor “Wide Open” Bowles, racking up an impressive number of convictions for public intoxication and none at all involving the bootleggers who'd supplied the fuel. He'd resigned under threat of a grand jury investigation, gone into private practice for a few years, and won the bench after the reform ticket wore out its welcome after one term. He entertained the Four Horsemen in his chambers in the Wayne County Building, a riot of carved scrolls and statuary and decorative holes in the concrete through which a couple of million taxpayer dollars had drained away.

  "Lawyer Sweet dug up a Karpalov cousin who signed an affidavit claiming he was born in his parents’ house two blocks from Lake Huron,” Springer said, pulling a tuft of hair from his long, fleshy nose that was immediately replaced by another, like paper towels in the men's room. “It looks genuine, but a hearing will determine that. Meanwhile I'm ordering your men to see he makes it there upright and not feet first."

  Zagreb squinted against the sun as if it had no business in the same room with his hangover. “I kind of wish you'd told us that seven hours ago. With that start Eddie could make Denver."

  "It was a stay of deportation, not a release. Can't you read?"

  "If I knew there was a literacy test I'd've joined the merchant marines."

  "Don't give up the dream,” Springer said.

  "My fault, Judge.” McReary was bright eyed, no poisons in his blood. On days like that the others drew straws to see who got to give him a hotfoot. “I looked at the paper, Zag didn't."

  "And who is Zag?"

  "Lieutenant Zagreb."

  "Well, tell Zag that if Karpalov doesn't show up in court Monday—breathing, it seems I must add—he'd better brush up on his sea chanteys."

  "Tell him yourself. He's right in front of you.” Burke was still partly drunk, and even less fun than usual.

  Springer fixed him with his pea-shooter eyes. “Which one are you?"

  Burke stared back. “Sergeant Starvo Canal."

  "That'll cost you twenty-five dollars for contempt, Sergeant."

  Canal glared at Burke. He'd drunk his hair-of-the-dog for breakfast and peppermint schnapps didn't sit well on an empty stomach.

  "I know your commissioner,” Springer said. “He'd love to hove a reason to throw you all off the force into the draft."

  "Speaking of reasons, why give Karpalov life without parole, then cut him loose just because the cop was too busy doing his job to show his buzzer?"

  "That was part of his job, Lieutenant. Had I presided at the first trial, I'd have directed the jury to acquit and saved this community the expense of a second."

  "Thrifty, that's you,” Burke said.

  "That will be another twenty-five dollars."

  Canal swore under his breath. Springer swung his head his way. “What's the matter, Detective? He owe you money?"

  "He does now."

  The judge's telephone rang. “Pay the clerk, Sergeant. Don't make me jug you. Three Horsemen is just plain silly."

  In the marble hallway, Canal stopped Burke with a big hand on his shoulder. “Fork it over, Jack Benny. Fifty smackers."

  "Take it out of the sixty you owe me for the Louis fight."

  "You characters cut the comedy.” Zagreb stuck a cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets. McReary, who always carried matches to confirm his value to the squad, lit it for him. “Where'd Eddie hang his hat when he had a hat to hang?"

  "Tip-Top Club on Twelfth,” Canal said. “The OPA pushed it in last year on a rationing beef."

  "The beef being they was charging eighteen points a girl, same as canned peaches.” Burke grinned.

  "Not a help. Someplace where they ain't rolling bandages for the Red Cross."

  "Oh, detectives!” Springer practically sang the words.

  They turned as a body to see his head sticking out the open door of his chambers. “Get your sea legs ready,” he said. “That call was from Homicide. They scraped your responsibility out of a phone booth on West Lafayette half an hour ago. Two slugs in the chest, one in the head, right through the glass."

  * * * *

  On West Lafayette, a busy street in a busy town, sawhorses cordoned off a Rexall Drugs roughly halfway between the News and Free Press buildings. Most of the local reporters stopped there for hamburgers and Cokes sweetened from hip flasks. They stood outside looking hungry and disgruntled, frozen out of a scoop right on their doorstep.

  Burke kicked the shrouded body on the linoleum. “Deader'n Ragtime. Hey, Ox, every time I see one of these it's already got a sheet over it. You run around with ‘em in your pocket or what?"

  "Give me the rank, Detective. Or go on report.” Lieutenant Osprey, Homicide, swigged from the pint of Ten High he carried to balance out his handcuffs and sidearm. “'Lo, Zag. Remind me not to ask you and your boys to look after my dog when I'm in Florida. He might get shot by a cat."

  "Long time no see, Oswald. I thought it was goodbye for real after the McHenry investigation."

  "Didn't you hear? I got washed in the blood of the lamb after the last lottery. A little grifting don't look so bad with all them desks standing empty downtown.” He swung his head. “Lay off that, you big ape! You'll spoil it for Ballistics."

  Canal drew a thick forefinger from one of the jagged holes in the booth. The floor was a litter of shattered glass and wood splinters. “I don't need calipers. These're too small for my .45-caliber fingers."

  "Not to mention feet like torpedoes. And they call me Ox."

  "They're not talking about your size,” Zagreb said. “What about the mouthpiece, see anything?"

  "He says not. He's over by the soda fountain, drying out his drawers."

  The medical examiner arrived, a fat, white-haired retiree returned to active duty, who uncovered the bloody corpse and opened his case, whistling “I'm Popeye the Sailor Man.” McReary put the comic book he'd been reading back in the rack. “What makes you guys so happy all the time?"

  "Patients don't gripe about the bill."

  Passing the counter, Zagreb glanced at the soda jerk, wearing a white coat and a paper hat and fingering a lump of acne under his chin. Osprey said, “In the stockroom when the ball started, he says. The shyster was sitting at the counter getting his coffee juuust right, like Goldilocks. You can see the razor display blocks the view of the entrance.” He pointed to a cardboard cutout of a smiling Robert Taylor holding up a Gillette.

  "Calling a lawyer a shyster is actionable.” Winston Sweet sat at an ice cream parlor table in the corner, looking deflated inside his out-of-date suit. His voice sounded like an air-raid siren grinding down.

  "Sue my bookie,” Osprey said. “That's where I keep my dough. These missed the first reel, so let's take it from the opening titles. What was Karpalov doing here?"

  "He said he wanted to call a woman."

  "What woman?” Zagreb barked.

  "Some dame,’ that's how he put it. He said any dame would do after a deuce in the joint. Understand, I'm using his own language. The king's English is colorful enough for me."

  "You here for a dame too?"

  "Certainly not. I'm a happily married man. I came along to see he didn't wander off. My client insisted I keep an eye on him."

  "You did a swell job. Who's your client?"

  "That's privileged."

  "Nuts,” Zagreb said. “Murder's got its own set of rules, and clamming up ain't in it."

  "I'd argue that in court a
nd win."

  "Where'd you and Eddie go after you left the station?"

  "An awful place called the Ruby Lounge. I think the trumpets were hooked up to air horns."

  "On Hastings?"

  "I have no idea. I'm from Cleveland."

  Burke gripped the edges of the table and leaned in close to Sweet's face. “You can do better than that, Counselor. We padlocked the Ruby six weeks ago for operating after curfew."

  Canal said, “It's open again."

  "Since when?"

  "Since five weeks ago. I guess it took ‘em a week to sweep up the pieces."

  "You might've told a guy."

  "You wouldn't've liked it. Sweet's right about the trumpets."

  "After that,” Sweet said, “we went to an even worse place in a basement, where the music came from a jukebox and I think they made their own whiskey. I poured most of mine into a fire bucket. Then we went to an apartment where a friend of his lived, only after a few drinks he wasn't very friendly and they got into a fight."

  "What friend?” Zagreb said.

  "Frankie Somebody. Karpalov tried to pull this Frankie's woman onto his lap and Frankie told him to lay off and Karpalov threw a punch at him, but he ducked under his arm and twisted it behind him and threw him out into the hall. I went out right behind him. By then the sun was up and we came here so he could make that call. He wasn't in the booth ten seconds when I heard shooting. A bullet smacked into that wall and I fell off the stool and stayed on the floor until I heard sirens."

  Zagreb looked at the hole in the lath. “What was the name of this Frankie's girl?"

  "An exotic sort of name.” Sweet massaged his temples. A vein throbbed in one. “Nola."

  "Nola Van Allen,” Canal said. “Blonde in the chorus at the Broadway Capitol. Dances like a duck with a wooden leg, but it don't matter because of who runs the stagehands’ union."

  "Frankie Orr.” Zagreb found his Zippo and lit up before McReary could act. “Whenever the wife and kid hang on him like a cheap suit, he scrams that crypt in Grosse Pointe and makes a beeline to that apartment. He was twisting arms for Joey Machine at the same time Eddie tailgunned for him along the river. How about it, Sweet, was Frankie sore enough to follow him here?"