by Steven Gomez
“What exactly is this ‘favor’ that you want?” The tone of his voice conveyed the fact that Ace Thorndike didn’t make his way in the world by granting favors, and this was not a practice that he would find habit-forming.
“I want you to leave Hughie Cranski alone,” I told Ace.
“Who?”
I sighed, not wanting to actually say the words out loud.
“I want you to forget about Hugh W. Cranston.” The blank looks spread though the gallery. “He’s that scrawny little pulp writer that lives on the East Side who thinks he’s the second coming of Edward R. Murrow.”
The silence held in the room for almost two seconds, before it erupted into thunderous, boisterous laughter.
“Are you serious?” asked Ace, once he was able to regain the power of speech. The guys behind him, pinstripes included, were doubled over with laughter.
“Do you hear that?” Ace called over his shoulder. “Tough guy here don’t want us to lean on the comic book man.” Once again laughter ensued, and I was the straight man in a vaudeville routine.
“I take it that ‘Li’l Abner’ is still fair game, right boss?” More hilarity ensued, and I found myself wishing for that bullet to come sooner rather than later.
“Think of him what you will, but he’s looking into whatever you’ve got going on Channel Street. I’ll talk him out of this, but I want your word that he’ll be healthy while I do.”
The laughter died as the goons looked over at their boss. Pinstripes bent forward and whispered into Ace’s ear.
“Boss, Channel Street?”
Ace Thorndike stood and offered me his hand.
“I think we have a deal,” he said, and we shook. The goons behind him stood and watched as if a miracle had taken place. One had, but not in the way I thought. Ace held onto my hand.
“I was going to tell Alberto here to cut you up and feed you to the fish, but this is priceless.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, the brief warmth of hope I felt in my chest vanished, replaced by the more common feeling of dread.
“I’ll let the kid be, and I expect to never hear the name ‘Niles the Nose’ for the rest of my life.”
“And me?” I asked, my voice breaking like a fourteen year old’s.
“You?” he said, letting go of my hand and throwing his arms wide open. A smile spread out over the mobster’s face, and he looked as lethal as a toddler. “Boys, do you know what I do on Channel Street every Thursday morning before I come to the office?” he asked. The goons exchanged quizzical glances but kept silent.
“I pick up my laundry!”
The laughter from before was nothing compared to the guffaws that rained down as Ace waved me away. Ace laughed that he was going to have to share this with Boom Boom Bianchi on the East Side.
“Priceless,” he said in way of farewell. “Simply priceless.”
I made my way back to the elevator and rode down with the monolith who worked the lever. I even heard chuckles come from somewhere down in his dark, tiny little soul.
“Laundry,” he muttered. “That’s a good one.”
Hughie was in the clear with City Hall. No one from Ace Thorndike’s mob would harm a hair on the kid’s head.
I, however, couldn’t wait to kill him.
“Hughie, you are one dead son of a…” I said as I threw open his apartment door. I was immediately greeted by the business end of two gun barrels introducing themselves. In my experience, I’ve found that the only sensible thing to do in these situations is to remain very still and try not to have an accident. I mentally patted myself on the back for my success. The palookas with the hardware spun me around and pressed my face into the back of Hughie’s door. Hands frisked me, relieving me of my favorite pistol, my wallet, and the slight shreds of dignity that I still possessed.
“Why, this isn’t mom’s apartment?” I stuttered. “I must have made some silly mistake.”
“Button it, gumshoe,” said the man with a gun in my back. He grabbed my shoulder and tugged me around, showing me the faces of the men who were leading this dance. Both men wore military hair-cuts, dark suits, and very little personality. They flashed badges at me, but their whole demeanor already spelled out who they were.
Feds.
“What business do you have with Hugh W. Cranston,” asked flat top, his gun still getting acquainted with my belly.
“We’re old pals,” I said. “We meet once a week for crocheting.”
“Agent Cranston isn’t available for crocheting anymore, funny guy,” said the other flat top, tossing my wallet back to me and leaving my gun on the table behind him. “He’s helping out Uncle Sam regarding important business on criminal activity in the city and knitting isn’t on the schedule”
I looked around Hughie’s apartment and found that most of his belongings were boxed up or gone, and the drawers in his dresser that held his clothes were open and empty.
“What have you done with Hughie,” I asked, before the monkey-wrench that the Feds had tossed into my brain caused my head to explode.
“Wait! Did you say ‘Agent Cranston’?”
The two Feds exchanged looks and then fixed their cold stare on me.
“No, we didn’t,” senior flat top said as they each picked up a box and holstered their guns. They walked to the door and started to leave, neither smiling nor turning away from me as they did. “No one mentioned Hugh Cranston, and you never heard of him. Do we make ourselves clear, gumshoe?”
“Right,” I said. “Uncle Sam knows best.” I shot them a quick salute as they sent a couple sneers my way and shut the door behind them, leaving me in a disheveled apartment and a befuddled state of mind.
I wandered into the kitchen, hoping that the Feds left the booze, and caught the only break that I’d had in the last ten thousand years. I filled a dirty tumbler, drained it, and filled it up once more. On the stove, the remnants of Ma Cranski’s Mulligan Stew bubbled away, and it smelled just as good as before. I found a bowl, took out a spoon, and turned off the stove.
I sat down on the sofa and took care of the booze, which seemed the more pressing matter, before I finished the stew. I felt better not being the only stooge falling for Hughie Cranski’s wild tales, but it worried me a bit that the other stooge was my government. I shook my head, which I would do for the rest of my life when Agent Hugh W. Cranston crossed my mind, and told myself that Hughie was probably very happy with his government-issue badge and gun.
I only hoped he didn’t shoot himself on the first day at work.
Ma Cranski’s Mulligan Stew
¼ cup of all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon pepper
1 pound lamb stew meat, cubed
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 ½ cups of beef broth
1 cup water
2 bay leaves
2 cloves garlic
½ teaspoon dried oregano
½ teaspoon dried basil
½ teaspoon dried dill
3 carrots, cut into 1-inch slices
3 potatoes, peeled and cubed
2 celery stalks, peeled and diced
1 onion, roughly chopped
1 table cornstarch
1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley
In a large bowl, toss the lamb and bounce it around for a while with the flour, until well-coated. Add the oil to a Dutch oven and brown the lamb.
Add the broth, water, and spices. Simmer the meat until it is tender, about an hour and a half. Toss in the carrots, potatoes, celery, and onion and cover, simmering the whole megillah for about 45 more minutes, or until the veggies are tender.
In a spare bowl, take the cornstarch and combine it with about two tablespoons of the stew broth. Mix it well and pour it back into the stew, stirring the whole mess up.
Bring the stew up to a boil, remove it from the heat, and take out the bay leaf. Let it sit for about five minutes, dole it out in a bowl, and serve with the parsley.
Serves 4-6 G-Men
When the Ghanouj hits the fan
There’s something a little off-putting about the Museum of Natural History. I can’t seem to put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s the gryphon statues at the front gate, or maybe the fact that they keep the lights so dim that it looks as if the stuffed bears have a glint of hunger in their eyes. Maybe it’s the smell of old mummy in the joint, it doesn’t make any difference. All I know is that I don’t care for the place. When I got a call from Patterson March, an old army crony, to drop by ASAP and help him out, I wasn’t too keen for a number of reasons. March was a dandy of sorts, one I never really cared for, but when someone you served with asks a favor, you do it, personality or lack of one be damned. I’d just have to breathe through my mouth for a while.
The museum was all abuzz with activity, in contrast to the stoic exterior of the place. From what I gathered from the posters and banners strung over the dinosaur bones in the main hall, they were premièring a Middle Eastern find of no small significance that night. King Whatizface the All-Powerful from the Sacred Valley of Wherever, I supposed. From the white coats, cleaners, construction men and caterers running around the joint, it looked to me as if old kingie was still in charge. I looked around for March, hoping I could recognize the old bloke after all this time, when one of the guards came over and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“The museum is closed,” he said, in the same tone you reserved for unwanted solicitors who knocked on your door to ask about your religious affiliations.
“Careful peaches,” I told the tall watchman as he gave me a firm but clear shove towards the gryphons out front. “That’s my gun shoulder you got your mitts on.”
This gave Bluto some pause, and before he could regale me with more stunning conversation, I heard my name called from inside the Egyptian tomb to my left.
Lesser men would have run in terror.
“Patterson March?” I asked, directing my attention into the darkness. Slowly a figure emerged from the pitch, and much to my surprise, Patterson March hadn’t changed a bit in years.
March had the lean, athletic build of a tennis player, and the healthy complexion of a man who worked out, ate right, and spent plenty of time outdoors. I resisted the urge to pistol whip him and stuck out my hand. His smile wavered for a second. I suppose the internal debate raged as how to respond when the help want to shake hands. He once again flashed the pearly whites and took my offered mitt. He gave it a few pumps and I managed to get my heart rate down before we spoke.
“Dashed good to see you again, old boy,” said March in an affected English accent. From what I remembered of the man, he was born and raised in Flatbush, but perhaps that had changed over the years.
“You asked me to stop by, but you weren’t exactly clear to as to what you needed.”
March looked over his shoulder before speaking, to the security guard who was about to give me the bum’s rush a moment earlier. With a raise of March’s eyebrow the guard flat-footed it back to his post, and March and I retired to the smaller hall, away from the hustle and bustle at the main exhibit.
“I’m told,” March whispered, “that you are a detective.”
“I’m a detective for hire,” I replied, with an emphasis on hire. If March heard the emphasis, he did a good job of not showing it.
“We here at the Museum Society are in a bit of a jam, old boy, and we could use someone of your…..”
“Expertise?” I suggested.
“Quite,” dismissed March. He walked over to the main hall and expected me to follow, as if I were his underling. It bothered me that I followed.
“Three months ago Professor Martin Plath made the discovery of a lifetime in Egypt,” Marsh told me, strolling toward the glass display cases.
“A kosher deli?”
“An intact king’s tomb!” snapped Marsh. “Plath made the extremely rare discovery of a tomb untouched by looters. The crypt overflowed with riches, jewels, artifacts….”
“Mummies,” I sighed, looking around at the wrapped cadavers. “Lots and lots of mummies.”
“Exactly! And each of them worth a king’s ransom!” I looked over at the dead bodies wrapped like Christmas presents and wondered which one was the king. I doubted the distinction did him much good now.
“And old Professor Plath got King Whatizwhosits…”
“Cheoptu,” snapped March. It’s always tough when the help is dim-witted. “King Cheoptu of the third dynasty.”
“Fine,” I said. “So Plath digs up old man Cheoptu and finds his savings account. How did you end up with the goods only a few months later?”
“Professor Plath was an employee of the Museum, and an employee of mine. We took over custody of the find as soon as news of the discovery reached us and arranged for transfer to the museum.”
“And Professor Plath?”
“The unfortunate Professor fell victim to the hydrogen sulfide gas that escaped from the tomb upon opening. Tragic, just tragic. The professor’s assistant obtained the proper permits and we were fortunate enough to have the artifacts transported post-haste.”
I read between the lines close enough to substitute “hydrogen sulfide” for a blade in the back, “assistant” for paid cut-throat, and “permits” for bribery. Professor Plath never stood a chance.
“Well, that’s a lovely tale, but what’s it got to do with me?”
March again looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The museum has spared no expense in making this the most publicized event of the year. Anyone who is anyone will be at the opening tonight, and everything must go seamlessly.”
“Well, March, it looks like you have all the seams accounted for,” I said as I watched the caterers put the finishing touches on the spread. Guys like me don’t get a chance to partake of canapés and caviar, so I was hoping to stick around for a while.
“Not quite,” said March as he stepped closer and spoke in a hushed whisper. “The Dagger of Cheoptu is missing.”
“And I’m guessing that the Dagger of Cheoptu isn’t exactly a knife of the Swiss variety…?”
“The Dagger of Cheoptu,” said March with an indulgent sigh, “is a priceless artifact that is the crown jewel of this exhibit.” I would have thought that the crown jewel would have been an actual crown jewel, but I wasn’t the archeologist here.
“So what does the dingus look like?”
“The ‘dingus’ is a gold dagger approximately twelve inches long with a wavy blade, and three large rubies imbedded in its handle.”
“Could you use the thing as a weapon?” I asked, going to the places my mind usually took me.
“Good heavens no!” gasped March.” Despite the fact that the dagger is made of very malleable metal, it is worth more than some of the lives in this very room!” I had no doubt that mine was one of the lives it was worth more than and his was one of the exceptions. It was that kind of thinking that made March so popular with his men during our army days.
“All right, when did you notice the dagger was missing?” I asked.
“I noticed it was missing when I made my final inspection this morning. We will be opening the exhibit at six o’clock this evening. The dagger was there last night and this morning as well. I’ve been just about bloody sleeping in this place since the artifacts arrived.” He said this as if it explained his surly disposition, but the same smooth operator that ran the Museum of Natural History today was the guy who routinely had me digging trenches during the war. He noticed everything, but cared about damn little.
“Have there been any unusual visitors to the museum this morning?” I asked.
“Just the usual faces,” he said. “The handymen who assemble the displays, the cleaning staff, the caterers, and Professor Trainer, the archeologist who took over after Plath’s unfortunate demise.”
“And has anyone left the museum?”
“No one has left the building since I got here this morning. The guards have set up a p
erimeter, none have been in the room since this morning, and no one goes in or out of this place without my say so.” If he expected me to salute, he would be disappointed.
“Well, it looks like you have everything in hand,” I said, tipping up the brim of my hat and heading towards the caterers table. “Let me know how everything turns out.”
“Not so fast,” he said, ever the commanding officer. “I still don’t have the bloody thief.”
“Didn’t you have everyone here frisked?” I asked.
“I did,” he said. “And everyone was clean. There is no way that the dagger left his room.”
“Well, then, what could we possibly have to worry about?” I said as I made my way to the display cases. “Maybe we should just check the silverware drawer.”
I poked my way through the display area, carefully focusing on the glass case that once held the Dagger of Cheoptu. I noticed the red velvet pillow still bore the faint outline of the blade. I also noticed that the glass case had recently been cleaned of all fingerprints, stray hair, and smudges. Jeeves the butler would be proud.
“I don’t suppose you mopped up any bloody footprints this morning?” I asked the young man from the cleaning crew following the construction guys around, preparing for the grand opening. He gave me the same look my butcher gives me when I try to be witty. If there was anything to be learned, it wasn’t here.