Mystery: The Frank & Ernest Box Set - Mystery and Suspense Novels (The Frank & Ernest Files, Mystery, Thriller, Suspense Book 6)

by David Archer

  “Not a good time for jokes, Officer Campanella,” Frank snapped. “No, seriously, Mrs…um…Martha, I’ll handle the inquiries and I promise to be diplomatic, OK?”

  “Well, let me see. Mrs. Butler, next door to my right, she’s always been kind of a snoop. I can’t say for sure she was lookin’ out her front window right then, but she does spend an awful lot of time at that window. She likes to gossip, you know. Oh, I almost forgot Jackie Tasby. Man’s nothin’ but a drunk, but he likes to hang out on the corner, panhandling and makin’ a nuisance of his self with all that crazy drunk talk. If he did see something, would it count in a trial if he’d been drinking?”

  “It probably wouldn’t count for enough to get a conviction,” Frank admitted, “But if he did see anything, he might be able to corroborate anything a sober person saw. Your neighbor Mrs. Butler, is she usually sober?”

  “She always sober. Her favorite thing to gossip about is how much liquor the rest of us drink.”

  “All right, I think we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Frank said. “I’m gonna let you have some time alone with your thoughts…Martha, but please, take this card and give me a call the minute another name or anything else at all comes to mind. Believe me, this case is my number-one priority.”

  “Once again,” Ernie, added as they were leaving, “you have our deepest sympathy. In fact, I’m gonna go light a candle for her, right now.”

  Chapter 6

  “Pardon me, gentlemen, I don’t mean to disturb y’all.” Spencer Bennett told the two detectives. “I just come by to kiss a little ass.”

  “Since when do you kiss The Man’s ass?” Biggie Hilton sneered.

  “When I need a little favor, that’s when. Thing is, I’m still upset and concerned about two of my very best friends getting’ shot up on Lehigh Avenue. I just want to check and see, are you two detectives doin’ everything you can to bring the killers to justice.”

  “You mean you’re concerned about having your best dealer taken out, that about right?” Biggie said.

  “Dealer? What choo getting’ at, man? I got nothin’ to do with no dealers! I’m a straight-up business man…and by business I do not mean pushin’ drugs.”

  Frank Mueller could not resist a derisive snort. Yes, Spencer Bennett was a man of many businesses, all right. There was the insurance business (extortion for protection money), the lending business (loan sharking), the entertainment business (prostitution) the gaming business (the numbers) and, above all, despite the man’s vehement denial, the pharmaceutical business.

  “Come on, Bennett, you know as well as us that Ellis Washington—your so-called friend—was one of the busiest dealers in the city,” Frank told him.

  “If that’s so, then I’m both surprised and disappointed. Maybe I’ll help the boy get counseling, once he’s let out the hospital. No, thing is, Els and me were boyhood chums.”

  “Yeah, okay, you’re fifteen years older than him. So when exactly did the two of you hang out?. Can’t imagine a five-year-old would give you much trouble on the basketball court,” Frank observed. “And how about the other guy, the one that got killed, Tyrone Smith. He a friend of yours too?”

  “Well, lets just say I was acquainted with Mr. Smith and leave it at that. I had no bone to pick with him, and it’s always upsetting to see a brother get killed for no good reason at all. As a leader of this fine but downtrodden community, I take the death of its members personally.”

  “You seem so upset about Tyrone Smith,” Frank pointed out, “but I’m hearing anything from you about the little girl. What’s the matter, she not part of your operation?”

  “Course I’m upset! I’m especially upset about that innocent child. If you knew me at all, you would know how my heart bleeds, even now.”

  “Look, we’re on the case, and that’s all I got to say, unless you have something useful to tell us, I mean besides, get busy and work harder,” Frank snapped.

  “Matter of fact, I do have somethin’ useful. If I was you, I’d check out a band of Jamaicans, call themselves—”

  “The Lehigh Avenue Rude Boys,” both detectives finished his sentence.

  “Thanks for wising us up, Mr. Bennett, we’ll be sure to check that out, first chance we get.” Frank went on. “So now that you’ve dropped your big bombshell, how about you go and do whatever it is you do to line your pockets and let us get on with our jobs.”

  “Yeah, I know how you plan to get on with your jobs all right. Coffee and doughnuts at eleven, then lunch at Colonel Sanders, then more coffee and doughnuts, catch a quick nap in the squad car, then maybe nip over to some strip club to strong-arm a couple drinks off the owner. You people disgust me! Seems like I’m the only one gives a care about this community.” With that, Spencer Bennett jammed his fedora back onto his head and stormed out of the station.

  “If that’s the way he kisses ass,” Frank told his partner, “I’d hate to be around when the boy’s perturbed.”

  Chapter 7

  Frank and Biggie decided at last to abandon their stakeout of Yvette Collins’ place. Not only had there been no sign of Delroy MacGregor, there had been no sign of her either. They requested that the building be kept under informal surveillance, but they themselves had other leads to check. Frank asked Biggie to roust Rasta Pete again, while he himself followed up on the two possible witnesses Martha Stewart had mentioned. He figured—wrongly as it turned out—that Mrs. Butler would be the easier assignment.

  “Why you come back here again, young man?” she snapped at Frank. “I done told you I saw nothin’, and that’s exactly what I saw: nothin’!”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to think back on that night, just one more time?” Frank asked her. “Word I hear is that you know a lot of stuff that goes on around here.”

  “Yeah, well maybe you shoulda got the word I live by the code of the neighborhood: don’t snitch!”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine you’d ever snitch on anyone about anything, Ma’am. I’m sure an upstanding member of the community, such as yourself, would never be so indiscreet. Still, you ought to keep in mind, a little girl was shot down along with the two men who were probably the killers’ targets. Doesn’t that bother you, even a little bit?”

  “I said it before, I’ll say it again, don’t snitch. That’s the code I live by.”

  “Yeah, I think the key word there is ‘live.’ You’re afraid you’ll get killed if you speak up, aren’t you?”

  “Shoot, you think I’m afraid of those Jamaicans? They wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me. I’ll have you know I am protected by the likes of Spencer Bennett. None of them wild men gonna mess with him.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is the Jamaicans were the shooters. Are we talking about the Lehigh Avenue Rude Boys?”

  “We ain’t talkin’ about no one and no thing. Now get out my house, ‘fore I call the police on you.”

  “Ma’am, I am the police, in case you forgot.”

  “Don’t make no difference. I got nothin’ to say.”

  Jackie Tasby, the supposedly unreliable drunk, turned out to be a little more helpful. Frank caught him hanging out by the entrance to his favorite liquor store, minutes before it opened.

  :”Jackie Tasby?” Frank asked the man as he approached him from behind.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” Jackie answered as he turned toward the cop, “and I ain’t do nuffin.”

  “Nobody said you did, Mr. Tasby. Even so, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to postpone your breakfast there a few minutes. I gotta ask you a few questions, and I’d prefer to hear from you while you’re sober…well, maybe not as drunk as you will be. So how ‘bout it compadre? The quicker you give me the answers, the sooner you’ll be swilling that Thunderbird.”

  “Thunderbird? Sheeit, I wouldn’t wash my feet with no damn Thunderbird.”

  “Okay, that takes care of the first question, now let’s give this one a try: what do you know about the shooting here three nights ago. You know, the one where two peo
ple got killed, including a little girl?

  “Yeah, that was a dirty shame,” Jackie agreed. “Thing is, I was at the other end of the street to start with, and after the gunfire started, I got my ass behind that dumpster over there. Onliest thing I can tell you after that is what I heard.”

  “OK, that’s a good start. What did you hear?”

  “Well, first I heard a whole lotta shots, and maybe not from just one gun. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a machine gun and a coupla pistols, but that’d only be a guess. I didn’t see the actual guns or the shooters neither. Anyway, they fired the shots, then I heard two more shots and a guy—oh, and I know the guy. It was Els Washington. He do business on the street—he starts screamin’ like a little girl. Actually, lotsa people were screaming by that time, but I could pick out Washington’s voice. Then, a few seconds later, I hear nine or ten more shots. After that, the car lays a patch and speeds outa there.”

  “So the car wasn’t moving fast until those last shots. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Naw, those boys was takin’ they time. I guess they wanted to make sure they hit everybody.”

  “You sure you didn’t see or hear anything else?

  “Well, maybe a little bit. I seen one of those guys lean out the window and say something like ‘there he is,’ but, you know, like a Jamaican would. I ain’t no good at imitations. I did get a little peek at the guy, leanin’ out the window and pointin’ his finger.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t know who the guy was.”

  “Okay, then, did he look like he might be Jamaican. You know, with the dreadlocks and all?”

  “He sounded Jamaican, I do remember that, but, far as I can recall, he looked like a home-grown, straight-up American nigger.”

  “Well, that could be. Not all Jamaicans have the crazy hair.”

  “That’s true. I know this one Jamaican cop, name of Biggie Hilton. Man’s bald as a pool ball. You know him?”

  “Yeah, we’ve met. All right, thank you for your time, Mr. Tasby. Can’t say we won’t need to talk again someday, but, for now, you enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Meanwhile, the aforementioned Jamaican cop with the pool-ball head had been grilling Rasta Pete, not about the shooting, which Pete swore up-and-down he did not see, but the whereabouts of one Delroy MacGregor.

  “We tried checkin’ out that Yvette woman, and it was nothin’ doin’.”

  “Don’t surprise me, mon. Word I got is that both she and her boyfriend got outa town on the sly. You been watchin’ an empty apartment, far as I know.”

  “Well, ain’t that just dandy. I’m disappointed in you, Pedro.”

  “What choo mean ‘Pedro?” I ain’t no damn spic!”

  “Okay, take it easy, brother. I was just messin’ witcha. So, where you suppose they went?”

  “Sorry, they didn’t exactly stop by and drop off their itinerary, ‘fore they skipped out. I suppose I could do some research into that question if, you know, I had a research grant.”

  “OK, then, here’s Grant,” Hilton said as he handed the man a fifty. Now how about you nose around and report back to me toot sweet. Let’s say tomorrow noon, here at Aunt Polly’s”

  “That’s a lotta work in not so much time,” Pete complained.

  “Don’t think for one second you’re gonna get another Grant—least not for now. Maybe I got a little more for you tomorrow, if you got something for me, comprende?”

  “Hey, mon, how many times I gotta tell you? I ain’t no damn—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Now I need you to go and get it. We straight?

  “We straight, mon.”

  But for all Rasta Pete’s newfound cooperation, he didn’t find squat.

  For the first two days after the killings, no dealers on either side had been seen in the neighborhood, which made sense to Frank. With the whole city crying out for vengeance, it was smart to keep a low profile. Then, one-by-one, the ganja dealers began to drift back. Frank did not know any of them by sight or reputation, but none of them seemed to be members or even friends of the Rude Boys. If Delroy MacGregor had not sent them back, then who had?

  Chapter 8

  “Excuse me, Officer,” Olivia Kupka called out to the policeman a few paces ahead of her.

  “Yes ma’am, Mrs. Kupka, isn’t it?” Ernie Campanella turned and replied. “What can I do for you?” It was a beautiful, peaceful Sunday afternoon, and Ernie was in a fine mood, looking forward to the soda and hot pretzel he had just purchased.

  “It’s about my son, my son Steven. He got beaten up last night.”

  “You don’t say! Well that’s terrible. Where was he when this happened, Center City?”

  “No, right here in Fishtown, right in his own home! Can you imagine?” Ernie could imagine—after all, he was a cop—but it took a bit of effort. The home on Shackamaxon Street, where Mrs. Kupka lived with her son and daughter-in-law was on one of the nicer blocks of the city. Not Society Hill, to be sure, but none too shabby either. Violent crime had not been anything like the problem in this neighborhood that it had been elsewhere in the city. Ernie had long lived in fear that he might get transferred to a far worse precinct, like his good friend Frank.

  “I didn’t hear anything about the crime in the morning briefing. When exactly did this happen?”

  “You wouldn’t hear because he refuses to report it. He’s afraid if he does, the police won’t do anything and those boys may come back and beat him even worse.”

  “Mrs. Kupka, you and Steven should have a little more faith in your local police. We may not be perfect, but we do our very best to protect upstanding citizens, like you and your son. Can I get you at least to tell me what happened?”

  “Well…I suppose I could, if you don’t tell my son I told you.”

  “That may be difficult, if you want me to catch these thugs, but I’ll do my best. Please, if you do nothing, he could still get beaten up again or maybe it could happen to you. I don’t mean to scare you, but I don’t know what kind of rotten apples we’re dealing with.”

  “Very well, here is what happened. There is this fancy place nearby—I think it’s called Henry’s Club or something. I’m not sure, ‘cause I always try to avoid the place.”

  “Club Harry,” Ernie corrected her. “That the place you mean?”

  “Yes, I’m almost certain it is. Anyway, the name’s not so important; it’s the element that the place attracts. You see, it’s very popular with the young people and, lately these hoodlums from New Jersey have been coming into the neighborhood at night, when we’re all supposed to be home safe. Then they take to banging on our doors. When they finally get an answer, they tell whoever they find that they have to go and move their car, because they can’t find a parking place near the club. One poor woman—Mrs. Kravitz—told them she didn’t have a car, which is true, and they broke her nose.”

  “That’s just plain unacceptable! Why has no one reported this?”

  “Please, Officer, we’re afraid. We’re all afraid, not just Steven.”

  “So, let me get this straight. These punks come in from Jersey and, if they can’t find a place to park, they strong-arm the residents here into giving up their spaces. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, that is exactly what happens, and last night it was my son’s turn to deal with it. Instead of putting up with it, he had to get angry and tell them off. That was a big mistake. They really hurt him. I keep telling him to go to the hospital. He says he’ll see our doctor if he’s not better by Monday. I know he won’t be much better, so I hope he’ll at least do that.”

  “Yeah, try to talk him into that at least, but don’t tell him I said so. See, I’m trying to do what you asked and keep this as quiet as I can. Okay, let me ask you this. Do you and your neighbors have this problem every night?”

  “No, only on Friday and Saturday nights, but, lately, every Friday and Saturday. And, if people turn their lights off and pretend they’re not
home, they’ll just throw rocks through the windows and break down the door.”

  “I see,” Ernie said. “All right, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll put in an overtime request for me and my partner for this coming Friday and Saturday nights. Otherwise, we’d be off shift. We’re working days this rotation. We’ll lay low in an unmarked car and wait for those guys to make their move. When they do, we’ll catch ‘em in the act and run ‘em in.”

  “Will they go to jail?”

  “If I can catch ‘em right, they absolutely will go to jail, especially if you and your neighbors come out and testify at the trial. I’ll wrap up a case so tight not even the smartest Jew lawyer in New Jersey will be able to get ‘em off the hook. But you gotta play ball with us. Otherwise, all I can do is scare the bejabbers out of them—which I will, of course, but I’d rather see punks like that doing time for this stuff.”

  The following Friday night, the trap did not spring. Apparently there had been two gangs of punks who had been causing all the trouble, but they both managed to find parking spaces without having to resort to threats of violence. Perhaps some of their number may have been disappointed at their seeming good fortune.

  The next night, one of the carloads was not so successful. Ernie and his partner Leonard Tompkins, kept enough distance not to be spotted by the intruders, but not so much that they couldn’t spring to the rescue. This time they had chosen a place three houses down from Olivia Kupka’s place.

  “Candy gram!” shouted Angelo Fabbri, the leader of the pack, as he banged on the front door with the side of his fist. “You betta come out and getcha candy, or we’ll have to force feed you.”

  “Yeah, our specialty of the night is knuckle sandwiches,” Rudy Nero guffawed.

  “Come on, open up, asshole. We know you’re in there. You make us bust the door down, you’ll be hurtin’ for certain.”

  Finally the door opened with a faint pull. The elderly man behind it stepped back as soon as he saw the gang. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he pleaded.