Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  A man lounged in a doorway ahead, smoking a cigarette. The bend of his hat was wrong, too low, his movements too jumpy. She reached for her switchblade. Her heart sunk. She’d put it in her right pocket and the bandaged fingers made extracting it next to impossible. She slowed her pace, looked back at the traffic, readying to cut across. And never saw the man who jumped her with the soaked cloth for her nose and mouth. She struggled, gagged, tried to scream, thought she kicked him.

  But it was too late, and too dark, for that.

  TWENTY

  INSIDE HER HEAD, the horses took off, thundering hooves, pounding earth. She opened her eyes to keep them from exploding through her ears.

  The room was dark as pitch. Was she blindfolded? Lennox blinked, her eyes refusing to focus. Her neck was bent at an awkward angle. Heat blew against her cheek. She pulled her head up and felt the steam thick in the air. She tried to move, but her hands were bound behind her back, her ankles tied against chair legs. The shuffling of feet not far away sent a shock wave through her.

  Then a door opened, a shaft of burning glare. The yellow light framed a man. There was talking. She felt like a stick of wood, solid, dull, heavy. The smell of wet laundry was in the hot air, cotton, moist.

  More shuffling toward her, the light gone. Then the beam of a flashlight knocking her back. And the voice.

  “You awake now?”

  She squinted at the glare.

  “Turn on the light.” An overhead bulb ticked on; a room of fog glowed under it. And a goon with a flashlight, and Georgie Terraciano, in a blue silk shirt and a pinstriped sack suit.

  “Hello, toots.” Georgie leaned his face down to her level. “You don’t mind me calling you toots, do ya? Seems like you got some information we ain’t been getting from ya. Things you been snooping about that aren’t getting back to us. What you got to say to that?”

  “You’re doing the talking, toots,” she said, her tongue thick and dry.

  “No, no, no. You’re wrong about that, Miss Lennox, ‘cause you’ll be talking. You’ll be telling us everything that ain’t in that report.” He waved the folded sheets, four in all, in front of her. “You think we buy this is everything? You got another think comin’.”

  The goon was the older boxer, the one she’d biffed in the jaw that day with Marilyn. Great, just great. He looked at her with an expression of bland disgust. She felt the same away about herself.

  Georgie paced in front of her. “Hit her, Tarp.”

  The boxer stared at Georgie. “Aw, boss.”

  Georgie gave him a sour look and took a step back. Tarp stood between her and Georgie. She held up her head to give him a good shot. “I’m sorry about this, miss.”

  “It’s all right, Tarp. Sorry about the knee.”

  “That’s not the same. I—”

  “Do it, Tarp,” bellowed Georgie.

  The slap was an openhanded hit, and it gave her a crick in her neck. Her stung. She looked at Tarp, trying to communicate something, anything. He frowned and rubbed his hand.

  “Now, talk.” Georgie stepped back into the friendly circle. “What have you found out about Iris Jackson?”

  “It’s in the report. All of it. Her real name is Rose Schmidt.”

  “No, it ain’t. No such person, in Kansas City or in Raytown.”

  So they had been to Raytown. With their trained midget. “Well, maybe she lived somewhere else. A woman at Emery-Bird-Thayer identified her as a Rose Schmidt. That’s all I know. I couldn’t find her in Raytown, and I guess I wasn’t the only one looking.”

  Georgie rubbed his chin. “So where’s the dough?”

  “Dough?”

  “The Truman money. Why do you think we’re looking for the dame—‘cause I need to get laid? She knows where the money is.”

  “I don’t know anything about any money, Georgie. If you’d told me this earlier—”

  Georgie slapped her himself. Other cheek, harder, more stinging. Possible tooth cut.

  “Don’t lie to me. You’re after the money yourself. You weren’t going to tell me about your extracurricular projects with my wife, were you?”

  “What does your wife have to do with it?”

  “You know, I hate know-it-alls more than I hate liars. Hit her again, Tarp.”

  It was softer this time, and she tried to thank Tarp with her eyes, but he kept his averted.

  “You think I don’t have my people at that bank? My wife goes waltzing in there big as life to see my bank accounts, I hear about it.”

  “That wasn’t your wife; that was Iris Jackson.”

  “The hell. My wife told me herself—she went down there and made a big scene, showed ‘em our marriage license and made ‘em open the books.”

  “Marilyn did that? Good woman,” Lennox said. She spit blood.

  Georgie pulled his arm back to hit her again, but Tarp put his in the way. “You want her to talk or not, boss?”

  He lowered his arm and glowered at her. “What else haven’t you told us?”

  “That you own a racetrack and are making a killing out there. Let’s see. That Reggie Vanvleet owns his own tuxedo.”

  “About the money, you dumdora. Where is the money Lazia gave her?”

  Lennox ran her tongue along the cut inside her cheek. Truman. Nineteen thirty-four, the year Truman was elected to the Senate. Lazia. Also the year John Lazia was gunned down. Money. The essential ingredient in the triangle. If Lazia wanted to make a big contribution to the campaign, maybe even an illegal one … But he got shot, and Iris was his girl—

  “She’s got it hidden somewhere. She came back for it.”

  “There you go.” Georgie was smiling. “Come on. Where’d she hide it?”

  “I don’t know. Give me some time. Maybe with that Edna Klundt.”

  “So where’s she?”

  Lennox shook her head. It felt clearer, but the rope was cutting into her wrists and ankles. Her neck hurt; her lip was swelling. The heat wrapped everything in a smothering dampness. “Maybe dead. Who knows.”

  “Don’t give me your bushwa. I been following this dame for weeks, long before you came trottin’. But you’re the pro—that’s what Dutch tells me. Trust the professionals; they’ll find out where she stashed the money. But I need that money now.”

  She looked closely at his swarthy face. “You scared Iris, didn’t you? She had to disappear.”

  Georgie paced angrily. “I never talked to her.”

  “But you followed her. She saw you, didn’t she? She’s not stupid. She made me, too. I was set up, the witness to the jump.”

  “So what? What I want is the money. I don’t care about the broad.”

  “She killed that girl, the one who looked like her. And the bartender who saw the switch. She might come after you, too, Georgie. You better watch your step.”

  “Yeah, right.” Georgie picked up a jacket from the doorknob. She could see his face glistening with sweat. “Tarp here’s going to look after you till I get back. Hit her if she acts up, Tarp. You—” he pointed at her—“you and I will talk later.”

  The boxer watched Terraciano leave. He turned to her, leaned against the cavelike wall, crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Warm in here,” Lennox said, looking around. There were only the slimy walls, the single bulb, and the heat. “Where are we?”

  Tarp looked her over. “Power plant.”

  “Ah. The steam.” She felt her blouse sticking to her chest, looked down. The fabric was translucent with moisture. Tarp was looking, too. “I’m sorry I hit you the other day. I didn’t know you worked for Marilyn.”

  “And Georgie, too,” he said.

  “Right. That must be tough, the loyalty thing. But I guess you don’t play favorites.”

  He blinked, looked away. Minutes passed. Water dripped. Lennox sweated. Tarp sweated. The steam swirled.

  “Is there any water?”

  The big man pushed off the wall, stepped outside the door, and returned a few minutes later w
ith a paper cup full of water. He held it to her lips. She washed the blood off her tongue. The water dribbled down her chin into her lap and onto her blouse. “Okay?” Tarp said.

  “Do you think … Oh, never mind.”

  “What?” He stood over her in his double-breasted suit, wide shoulders not needing padding, legs like tree trunks.

  Lennox looked up at him and smiled. “I just wondered if you had a handkerchief.”

  He pulled a red silk square out of his pocket. “Want I should wipe your face?”

  “Please.”

  Awkwardly, he got down on one knee and patted her forehead, picking off a stray hair with his fingers. Then her cheeks; then she closed her eyes and he dabbed her eyelids. “I appreciate this, Tarp,” she whispered. He wiped her chin and the corners of her mouth.

  Before he could stand, she said, “What if you untied my legs. I’m getting cramps in my thighs.” She tried to raise her thighs a little and saw him swallow hard. As if maybe he was getting his own cramp.

  He stared through her blouse at her bra and her breasts as his big fingers fiddled with the ropes at her ankles. “Just for a minute,” he said. “So’s you can stretch.”

  “I really appreciate this, Tarp.”

  Lennox took slow, deep breaths. She watched the door through the misty air, and the top of Tarp’s head, his small bald spot surrounded with curly black and gray hairs. His pushed-in nose and scarred eyebrows. She tried not to think about how big he was, and if he had a gun. Where was her switchblade? She looked at the trousers stuck against her legs. It was gone.

  “There now.” He stood up. “Stretch ‘em out for a minute. Then I gotta put ‘em back.”

  She moved her feet forward, and it did feel good; the knee released its grip. She said, “Ah,” and smiled. “Thank you. Say, got a cigarette?”

  He pulled a deck of Camels from his jacket and lit her one. The end was damp when he held it to her lips. She puffed on it a few times and he pulled it away.

  “More?”

  She shook her head. Tarp finished the fag and rubbed it out under his shoe. He held the ropes nervously. “The boss’ll be back.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “His kid had some school program. Marilyn couldn’t go.”

  Lennox squinted at him. “Did he beat her up?”

  The big shoulders jumped.

  “That son of a bitch,” she whispered. She caught a trail of sweat with her tongue. “You married, Tarp?”

  “Not no more. She run off with the milkman. You believe that?”

  “I bet he wasn’t as handsome as you, Tarp.”

  The boxer’s lips turned up in a smile. “Plug-ugly.”

  “Bet he doesn’t satisfy her like you did,” Lennox said. Easy, girl. Tarp gave her a side look and hitched his pants. “I bet there’s nobody who could.”

  His hands strung the rope out. “You better stop, uh, that talk.”

  “Is Georgie going to be back soon?”

  “Not for an hour, I guess.”

  She stretched her legs long and tipped her head back. “An hour. Oh, that feels good. But you know, Tarp, I still have that cramp in my thigh. Do you think you could massage it a little?”

  He debated with himself, tugging on the rope, glancing at the door. Lennox worked her shoulders around, over the top of the chair back. She urged Tarp over with her smile and a toss of her head. Behind her back, her hands were slimy with sweat, the bandage on the bad hand limp with moisture. The slats of the chair back felt solid, but her grip on them was none too.

  “Come on, Tarp. Just a rub. It doesn’t mean anything, does it?”

  “Well. A kinda rubdown. Like the trainers used to do before my fights.”

  “That’s right, a rubdown. It’s my right leg, just above the knee.”

  He got down on one knee again, in front of her, and dropped the rope. His fingers touched her leg gingerly, just the tips against the gabardine fabric of her trousers. “Harder, Tarp, harder,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, up just a little.”

  Tarp swallowed, licked the sweat off his lip. He kept his eyes on her knee, except when they couldn’t help going to her filmy blouse. She let him knead a little, watched the sweat roll down his temples. “What about my calf, Tarp? Just below the knee.”

  He bent farther, and as he rearranged, one hand on the floor, she pulled her feet back and brought the chair around to the left in a sweeping arc. He brought his head up, mouth hanging open in surprise. The edge of the seat connected with Tarp’s skull in a thud; he froze in place, eyes rolled back, then slowly toppled. She held the chair aloft, ready for another blow. Her breath came hard and fast in the heat. But Tarp didn’t move, and she lowered the chair.

  She dropped to the moist cement, wincing as she wiggled through her arms to get her hands in front. Her mangled fingers shot with pain. Kneeling next to Tarp, she patted his pockets, found her blade, and sawed furiously through the rope. In a moment, she was at the door. She flicked off the lights and looked back.

  A lump was forming on Tarp’s skull. Lennox stepped back inside and felt his wrist for a pulse. He was still alive. She patted his cheek and whispered, “Sorry about that, old boy.”

  The halls of the power plant were dimly lit, one bare bulb a stretch, suffocating with heat and slimy with moisture. They all looked alike, tunnels under the earth, miles of them, slick stairs and moldy walls, distant clanking of machinery and hiss of steam. She ran, trying one hall, then another, until she was frustrated and lost and wondered if she was going to run smack into Georgie.

  Lennox leaned against a wall, wiped her face with the back of her hand, and caught her breath. There had to be a way out; she had to think. She noticed a slope to the floor. If she went up, she would eventually get to the surface. She ran, checking her balance at intersections, picking turns willy-nilly. At the third intersection, standing on one foot to see which way was up, she heard voices. They came from one of two uphill hallways. She listened hard but couldn’t pick out the hall. She turned and backtracked. If you can’t go up, you go down.

  At a crossing, she stopped to catch her breath in the heavy air. Her fingers throbbed and she tore off the bandages and threw away the splint. Her body was drenched in sweat. She couldn’t believe what she’d done to Tarp—not whacking him; that was nothing. But seducing him; she hadn’t known she had it in her. She felt a curious freedom, until she remembered she was stuck in this maze. She kept going, running her hands along the dim hallways, feeling the moss and fungus growing there.

  The voices startled her again. She sank into the shadows. They got closer, footsteps approaching fast. She slipped off her oxfords, tied the laces together, and slung them over her neck. And ran again, in the other direction from the voices.

  Around a bend, she suddenly smelled clean air. Her heart lightened—a way out. Natural light seemed to come from another hallway. She crawled through a high square on the wall and found herself in a round culvert running parallel to the tunnel. The voices were sudden and loud in the hall she’d just left. They echoed against the rock. Angry—that was Georgie. He was cursing. She flattened against the rounded wall and listened as the clattering faded. Her heart was in her throat as she inched down the culvert toward the light.

  She could almost stand in the big drainpipe. Warm water sluiced along the bottom, an inch deep. The shoes swung in front of her. She stepped on a bolt, winced, went on. The culvert turned, went another ten feet, and stopped.

  In the dark tunnels, like in hell, time was endless. Outside, it was daylight, the sky still light, blue with clouds. It hurt her eyes. She could see the Hannibal Bridge up to the right, looming. She stepped to the edge and looked down. The culvert emptied over a limestone cliff that dropped straight away from the lip. Below, the rock was etched and brown from the runoff from the culvert, pocked with tiny holes in the ancient layers of ocean bed. Fifteen feet down, the trickle widened into a waterfall that spread into a spray and disappeared as mist.

  Below that, t
he river.

  She took a step back.

  An oxbow bend off the main channel swirled brown and languid below, undercutting the limestone. The brown Missouri water was straight down. Lennox caught herself on the walls of the culvert. The breeze felt clear and cool against her skin, drying her sweat. But the drop to the river? Forty feet?

  Holy Mary.

  She turned back to the dark hole. The footsteps were distant now, a shout unintelligible. She could retrace her steps. Theoretically, yes, if all the halls didn’t look alike. If Georgie and Tarp and who knew who else weren’t looking for her. She faced the river again, a shiver passing over her damp back, the sticky blouse clinging to her ribs. She thought of Sylvia falling like an angel in the night air, of Melva with nowhere to turn. Don’t think about them. Do something right for once.

  How deep was the water down there? What sort of animals lived in that muddy sludge? Crawdads, pinchers, slime. The drop wasn’t nearly as far as off the bridge. She eyed the old iron monster high above, the cars whizzing by, the train level empty. On the far side of the river, an airplane took off, its tiny roar carrying across the water, a passenger plane with its steel body gleaming in the setting sun. She watched it rise, ached to be on it, to be airborne. It went up, and up, then was gone.

  She was sucking air, her chest heaving. Snakes, Amelia, hopeless endings. Her toes curled over the edge of the culvert. Biting things, razor teeth, catfish jaws. Taking her shoes from her neck, she held the strings by her side, tucked her bad hand into her shirt.

  Hell or high water.

  She looked down once more and thought: This is going to hurt.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE MARSH went on forever.

  Dank, muddy, with cutting reeds and stagnant sinkholes: the interminable marsh. Lennox had scrambled out of the river as soon as she could—the oxbow was barely four feet deep— to examine the raised red marks on her arms and ass and legs. The hit from the water had knocked her senseless for a second, but the putrid water brought her to. The trousers had helped, cushioning her skin, but now they were heavy with water and mud, dragging her down with every step. She put on her oxfords but the soft ground sucked them off her feet. She wedged them out of the mud, tied the laces together again, and trudged on.