EQMM, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Stege shrugged. “Like I said, she was part of the show. Apparently she'd come in with a big handbag and the man would dip into it and that's where the gun came from. She was the one waving the blackjack around, and some victims claimed they'd been struck by it."

  "They'd clean out the cash drawer?"

  "Yeah, and sometimes help themselves to some merchandise. This woman, in clothing shops with female apparel, she'd pick herself out some pretty things and take ‘em along."

  "Women do love to shop."

  Stege grimaced; helping me was hard on him. “I don't want you bothering the dicks on this case. They're good boys. I'm afraid all this pressure for arrests and publicity may have got the better of ‘em, is all."

  "I won't even talk to them,” I said. “Who I want to talk to are the Tigress's little cubs—George Dale and Leo Minneci."

  The little round-faced copper nodded and reached out his pudgy little fingers for the phone.

  * * * *

  Within an hour I was sitting in another interrogation room, smaller but also with brick walls, barred windows, and a scarred table. I might have still been at the First District Station, but I wasn't: This was the Cook County Jail on Dearborn, and a cell-block guard was ushering in the first name on my dance card: George Dale.

  Dale was tall, maybe six two, a good-looking guy with an athletic build; he had a certain Lothario look undercut by thinning brown hair. Dale was in a white shirt, open at the collar, and brown suit pants with dark shoes and white socks.

  The guard deposited him across the table from me. Dale wasn't in handcuffs or leg irons or anything—just a big guy with a friendly face, unless you knew how to read the coldness of his dark eyes. And I did. I was glad I wasn't packing my nine millimeter, because this character could have made a reasonable go of taking it off me.

  "What's the idea?” Dale asked. “Where's my lawyer? If I'm talking to another copper, I want my lawyer."

  "My name's Heller, private operative. Working for your sweetheart's attorney."

  He sat forward, some life coming into the hard eyes. “How is Eleanor? Is she doing all right?"

  "She's sweating the hot seat like you are. I think I can help get her out of this, if you can confirm she wasn't an accomplice."

  "She's innocent as a newborn baby!"

  "Well, let's not get carried away, George...."

  "Look, Heller, I'm no stickup man. I'm a gambler. I make my money on dice and poker, you ask around. This is all just a terrible misunderstanding. An accident."

  "An accident."

  "Yeah. That old man was crazy! I wanted to buy some shirts, and I wanted ‘em in quantity—said I'd buy half a dozen if he'd give me a decent discount. He said his price was firm and I tried to haggle and he just shook his head and gave me a nasty look. I had this box of shirts in my hands, and he yanked it away, and I yanked back, and he shoved me, and I shoved him back."

  "Across the counter, this is?"

  "Yeah!"

  "He was seventy, wasn't he?"

  "So they say, but he was a wild man! After I shoved him, he pulled the gun out from under the counter and came around and chased me, waving the thing. It was, you know, close quarters, and I tried to grab it away from him, and it went off and shot Leo through the hand. Then we ran out onto the street—Eleanor was in the back of the store and came running up behind us. The old fellow and me, we were struggling over the gun, and Eleanor was pounding him on the back, and he kind of tossed her off, just like you'd toss off a kid that jumped you. Then the gun just ... went off."

  "Just went off. Twice."

  "Well ... yeah. I was scared. He was vicious."

  "Okay, George. Maybe we should start over."

  He shook his head. “Look, I didn't pull any stickup. They found fourteen bucks in the cash drawer, you know."

  "Right. But you had a roll of bills in your pocket adding up to three hundred bucks."

  "That was my money! I don't deny I shot the old man. But it was an accidental type thing."

  "George. Don't kid a kidder—you're a seasoned stickup artist, and you stopped at that clothing store for a smash and grab."

  He just sat there, the eyes going hard again. “I don't say I'm a saint. But Eleanor was never in on anything illegal I ever done, and these witnesses that say we were some kind of gang, the three of us, it's a goddamn lie. The cops are just looking to clear a bunch of robberies off their books, in one fell swoop."

  "The three of us, you said. Where does Minneci figure in?"

  "He was just along for the ride. I'm sorry he got his hand shot up."

  "Going to the Cubs game."

  "Right."

  I didn't press. The story held water like a paper sack, but it was close enough to Eleanor's to make them both look credible. Of course, they'd known for several days that the cops were after them and had had time to get their stories straight before getting hauled in.

  Leo Minneci was a dark, handsome guy, or anyway, handsome if you didn't mind the cauliflower ears and the flattened nose. I'd never met him before, but I remembered him from his pug days—he'd been a pretty fair heavyweight, going up against Tuffy Griffiths and other headliners.

  He wore a blue workshirt, sleeves rolled up, and blue jeans, with his left hand bandaged. He had a confused expression, like a stranger had called to him from across the street.

  Seated opposite me, he asked, “What's this about? You another cop?"

  "I'm a private dick working for Eleanor Jarman's attorney. I'd like to get your version of what happened at that clothing shop."

  He shrugged. “Listen, I'm one of them victims of circumstance you hear about."

  "Really. I always wanted to meet one of those."

  "This has nothing to do with me. It's Dale and that dame of his. I was just riding with them to a ballgame. We was running a little early, and Dale said he could use a shirt and we stopped at that place. We were only in there a coupla minutes before Dale pulled a gun and stuck up the old guy. I tried to keep George from shooting the geezer and I, you know, wrestled with him, and the thing went off and...” He raised his bandaged mitt. “...I got a bullet through the hand."

  "Did Eleanor know anything about the stickup?"

  He shook his head. “I think it was, what you call it, spur of the moment on George's part. Look, I got a wife and two kids. I do all right with day labor, and I wouldn't risk putting them in a bad spot."

  "What's your wife's name?"

  "Why?"

  "I'm just gathering information, Leo. Don't get jumpy."

  "It's Tina. You want the address?"

  I wrote that down.

  I left the jail feeling better about my client. George Dale might or might not be a stickup artist, and Leo Minneci might or might not be his accomplice; but their stories both put Eleanor Jarman on the sidelines.

  * * * *

  I talked to half a dozen of the merchants on the witness list. Advertising that I was working for the Tigress would have turned them into clams, so I would just tell them I was a detective, and flash my little private investigator's badge, and that'd do the trick.

  Mrs. Swan G. Swanson (no joke) was typical. She was the proprietor of a little gift shop across from the clothing store on West Division Street. This was a busy shopping area, the treetops of fashionable, sleepy Oak Park visible above the bustle of commerce and traffic on this late afternoon.

  She was about sixty-five, five foot five in heels and maybe one hundred and sixty pounds that still had some shape to them, well served by a cotton dress with white polka dots on dark blue; with that pretty face highlighted by nice light blue eyes behind round wire-framed glasses, she was who you hoped your wife would turn out to be at that age.

  "Detective Heller,” she said, in a whispery soprano, “it was one of the most vicious things I ever saw."

  "I know you've been over this several times, but I'm new on the case. Don't spare the details."

  She nodded. “Two men came running out of the store. The
first man was dark and he was holding on to his hand, which was bleeding, dripping all over the sidewalk. The other man was struggling with Mr. Hoeh, who ran after them. Mr. Hoeh was very brave, fighting hand to hand with a man holding a gun."

  Very brave or very dumb.

  "Then this wildcat of a woman, a blonde, came out and was swinging this blackjack around and was hitting Mr. Hoeh with it. Mr. Hoeh sort of stumbled and stopped fighting and the woman stepped to one side and the man with the gun shot Mr. Hoeh—twice! And then when Mr. Hoeh was on the sidewalk, bleeding, dying, that vixen kicked him! Kicked him right in the face!"

  "That is vicious. Tell me, when did you notice the blackjack?"

  "Oh, uh ... well, right away, I guess. When she started swinging it."

  "I was just wondering if the detectives you spoke to earlier had mentioned that the Tigress sometimes used a blackjack. Did you notice the blackjack at the time? Or when they mentioned this to you, did you remember you'd seen it?"

  She frowned. “Actually, I guess I just thought she was pounding on him. But on reflection, I was sure, pretty sure, she had a blackjack."

  "What does a blackjack look like, anyway?"

  The light blue eyes froze behind the lenses. “Uh ... well, it's black, obviously. It's a sort of wrench, isn't it?"

  When I grew tired of talking to these witnesses who'd been played like a kazoo by the Detective Bureau, I had a Coke and a grilled cheese at the drugstore on the corner of Austin Boulevard and Division. Then I called the First District Station to see if that dedicated little public servant Captain Stege was still in his office.

  He was, and I asked, “Was there anything in the reports about Hoeh having any facial injuries?"

  "Just minor stuff, from the scuffle with Dale, I understand."

  "Then nobody kicked him in the face?"

  He grunted a laugh. “I saw that in the papers, some of the witnesses saying that. But no, Heller, nobody kicked the old man. The two bullets were enough."

  "Usually are. I read something about a cache of weapons being collected at the apartment where the dicks caught up with Dale and Eleanor. Was there a blackjack among the stuff?"

  "No. Pretty good arsenal, though—four revolvers and a shotgun."

  Dale had said he was no saint.

  I went back to the office, not because I was as dedicated as Captain Stege, but owing to the fact that I lived there, with the Murphy bed to prove it. There was a Depression going on, as you may have heard, and I had an arrangement with the building's owner to keep an eye on things at night in exchange for rent. That evening I needed to get over to the Century of Progress, where I was doing some security work—without the World's Fair, my summer would have been a bust—and I was just getting ready to go when a knock rattled the pebbled glass of my door.

  "Come in,” I said, wondering what I'd done to deserve two clients in one day, but it wasn't that at all. For a moment I thought Leo Minneci had escaped and come around, because this was a dark young man who resembled Minneci strongly. On a closer inspection, he was smaller and younger than Leo, without the flattened nose, and better dressed—white, short-sleeved shirt, red tie, white summer slacks, and white bluchers—also a boater-style straw hat, which was in his right hand.

  "I'm Tony Minneci,” he said. “Leo's brother. I have something for you, Mr. Heller."

  I gestured to the client's chair and he came over and filled it.

  "This may seem a little strange,” he said. “I'm not here because of my brother."

  "Oh?"

  "I'm kind of mad at Leo. He got me in trouble."

  Then I remembered—the car used in the robbery, whose license number had been reported by three or four witnesses, turned out to belong to Tony here, a University of Illinois student working as a grocery clerk for a summer job.

  "Leo asked to borrow my car that day,” his young doppelganger said, “but I said no. Then he took it anyway."

  "Did you know Leo was doing stickups? Is that why you didn't want him using your wheels?"

  He shook his head. “I didn't know anything about that. It's just my car, is all. Let him get his own car."

  He got into his pocket and fished out some bills—twenties. He put five of them on my desk. That was a lot of cabbage for a college-kid grocery clerk to haul around. A well-dressed college-kid grocery clerk.

  He smiled shyly.

  "That's to cover what you're doing for Eleanor."

  "You're Leo's brother, but you're running an errand for Eleanor? Why?"

  "She's a nice girl. She's innocent in all this. We were friendly."

  "You and Eleanor?"

  "No, all of us, Eleanor and George and Leo."

  "This is the same Leo? Let-him-get-his-own-car Leo?"

  He shrugged. “I get along fine with my brother. We don't agree on everything under the sun, but—"

  "What don't you agree with? Him sticking up stores?"

  "Look, Mr. Heller, my brother may not be perfect, but he does his best to keep that wife of his happy. If he did do something he shouldn't have, you can blame her for it."

  "Why?"

  "Because she's a nag, that's why. You should go talk to her. See for yourself. If you ask me ... nothing."

  "Make your point, Tony."

  "They got two kids now, Mr. Heller, but she was a wild one, Tina. She got my brother in all kinds of scrapes, and then she trapped him, far as I'm concerned."

  "How?"

  "Back when he was boxing and making good money, she got pregnant on purpose to bag him. If I was on this case? I'd see what her alibi was, the day of that robbery, and all those other robberies."

  "Does your sister-in-law know you feel this way?"

  "No.” He shrugged again. “I'm nice to her. Leo asked me to keep an eye on her, and the two kiddies, make sure they're okay. I'm on my way there now, as it happens."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, she's broke. I'm gonna give her some grocery money."

  "You are a nice guy, Tony. Why don't we go over there together?"

  He frowned. “Why would you want to do that?"

  "She's on my list to talk to. Maybe you could pave the way for me a little."

  "Well ... okay. I don't see why not. You'll see I don't let it show how I feel—my only interest is those two little kids. My nephews."

  "Sure. You have a car?"

  "Yeah.” He got to his feet and put the straw hat on. “You want a ride, Mr. Heller?"

  "No, I have the address. I'll meet you over there."

  * * * *

  The Minneci apartment was four handsomely furnished rooms over a florist shop on the corner of Madison and Homan. These were fairly nice digs, suggesting hubby Leo had been doing all right for his little family before the cops took him away.

  Tony Minneci introduced me as a private detective trying to help clear Leo. Tina Minneci—tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, slender—immediately warmed to me, and seemed genuinely bewildered that anyone could ever think her gentle, loving husband could have robbed or hurt anybody. (It would have been impolite to point out that gentle, loving Leo used to bash other guys’ brains out for a living.) She wore about a buck's worth of cotton housedress, blue plaid with a ruffled collar, nicely feminine, and her narrow face would have been pretty with a little makeup and a good night's sleep.

  She sat us down at a round wooden table in the kitchen; a highchair was shoved to one side. She had a pot of coffee going as well as a bottle of milk in a saucepan on the stove.

  We all had coffee while we sat and talked—quietly, because she had just put baby Jimmy down for the night.

  "He's a good boy,” she said, almost whispering, “unless something wakes him—then look out!"

  I said, “You have another child, don't you?"

  "Yes—Leo Junior. He's six. He's been with his grandparents since ... since Leo Senior, went away. They have a nice flat on the West Side—Daddy has a little restaurant over there, and does pretty well."

  "I see."

&nb
sp; "Little Jimmy and I may be joining Leo Junior. I may have to move back in with my folks—my rent here is due in a week and I'm flat broke."

  I nodded toward the living room. “You have a pretty nice place here. This isn't exactly a Hooverville."

  "I know, but we don't have any money stashed away in the bank or under a pillow, either. Leo's always been a good provider. He made a really decent living as a fighter, and when that dwindled, he always brought enough in to keep us comfortable."

  "Where did he work?"

  "No one place, but he always had something going. He did day labor, sometimes he helped out at the gym where he used to train."

  I kept my tone easy. “You don't think that money could've come from ... somewhere else?"

  Her eyes flared. “Mr. Heller, my husband is an honest man. He got in with a bad crowd, is all. I always thought George Dale was a slickster."

  "What about Eleanor Jarman?"

  Mrs. Minneci gave up a benefit-of-the-doubt shrug. “She always seemed all right. She has two little ones of her own to look after, you know."

  Tony sat forward; his straw boater was on the table next to his coffee cup like an upturned soup bowl. “Listen, I got some grocery money for you, Tina. Five bucks I squeezed out of my clerk job. If I go over there with you, I can get the employee discount."

  Mrs. Minneci turned her dark eyes on me and explained: “The little grocery store where Tony works part-time is just a block from here.... You're a sweetheart, Tony, but I can't leave the baby here alone, and I'm not about to wake him."

  "I can babysit,” I said, “if you're not gone too long."

  She beamed at me, then frowned with parental concern. “What would a nice young man like you know about taking care of a baby?"

  "This nice young man used to go out with a nice divorcee with three kids, two in diapers. I know all about changing ‘em, and I wield a mean milk bottle, too."

  Mrs. Minneci glanced at her brother-in-law, who shrugged and said, “Mr. Heller's reliable. No worries. We can be over there and back in fifteen, twenty minutes."

  A small discussion ("Do you mind? Are you sure?") followed, but finally dutiful Tony took the sister-in-law he claimed to despise—although I'd seen no sign of that—out the door and into the hall and down the stairs.