Flood Warning

by Will Rayner

  “I take it you hadn’t cornered the napkin concession in the restaurant game,” T.J. broke in.

  “You’ve got a big mouth, do you know that, kiddo?” Shannon growled. “It’ll get you into big trouble someday.” He turned to Sam. “I’d rather not supply any details, because the deal’s sort of hanging fire right now.”

  “Did The Greek try to skip out on you?” Sam asked. “Is that why you hired us?”

  “He tried to skip out, but not on the deal. When we ran him down — thanks to you fellows — he said he had been threatened and decided to make himself scarce. We sort of persuaded him that we were all in this together, but then he took a powder again.”

  “To turn up in China Basin,” T.J. said.

  “Right. But I didn’t clip him and I didn’t hire anybody to do the job. That’s the gospel truth. I needed The Greek for our deal.”

  “What about Benny the Bundle?” Sam asked. “It turned out he was the best way to get to The Greek and he shows up dead in our reception room. There is an obvious connection.”

  “Not to mention the fact they both got popped with a little ol’ .22,” T.J. added.

  “I’ve been sort of wondering about that, myself,” Shannon said. “No one in this town knocks people off that way. It’s got to be an outside hire. I’ve got a couple of my boys sniffing around.”

  “Jimbo Bracken’s sniffing around, too,” T.J. said. “He thinks we’re tied into both jobs. It might be hard to keep out of his way, once we start asking around.”

  “Perhaps not, Thomas,” Sam said. “We’d be trying to clear our own name, wouldn’t we?” He turned to Shannon. “An obvious inference is that someone is trying to muscle in on this deal you and The Greek were trying to put together. So if we accept you as a client, we are in effect trying to find who this outside party is. Maybe that should be your job.”

  “Make it both our jobs. I’ll put my own boys to work, but they’re not professionals like you two are. Not that kind of pros, anyway. I’ll stay out of your way, but I’ll feed you whatever we can come up with. And you know I pay well.” Shannon waited, trying to appear casual about his offer.

  Sam looked at T.J. “I really don’t like someone being bumped off outside my office,” T.J. said. “I’d say it’s a deal.”

  “Deal,” Sam said, after a long pause. He and T.J. then solemnly shook hands with Shannon. They started walking back to the Packard.

  “Uh, one more thing,” T.J. said as the driver opened the door for his boss. “Do you know two vice dicks named Pat and Mike?”

  Shannon laughed. “You bet your ass I do. Pat and Mike. Two waterfront bulls who made my life miserable in the old days. Yeah, now they’re in vice and they’re still trying to make my life miserable.” He looked back at T.J. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because they’re very interested in Benny the Bundle, too.”

  “Are they, by God,” Packy Shannon said.

  Chapter 12

  It was late afternoon when T.J. Flood decided to come clean with his father. At Sam’s insistence, Shannon had let them out a few blocks from Bush Street. “No use alarming the neighbors by showing up in a big Packard,” he had said. Now they were seated in Sam’s office.

  “When you tipped off Shannon about The Greek’s whereabouts a couple of weeks back, did you mention California Street?” T.J. asked.

  “No. I remember you mentioned it on the phone, but it didn’t seem relevant.” Sam waited for his son to continue.

  “Well, maybe you should bounce it off him, call him on that private number he gave you. There’s something fishy about the fourth floor there.” He then told Sam about going to 230 California and the eerie emptiness of the floor. He also went into detail about the confrontation with Pat and Mike.

  “They had to come out of the office down at the end — Central City Distribution Service it had on the door — and the thing is, it isn’t listed in the lobby directory.”

  “The second I absent myself, you head straight for 230 California on your own to snoop around,” Sam guessed. “Why didn’t you file a report?”

  “Because I knew you’d give me hell for doing something behind your back.”

  Sam almost smiled. “I can’t recall you ever having a problem with me giving you hell. It hasn’t slowed you down much in the past. What about the other names on the fourth floor?”

  T.J. then told Sam about the occupant poking his head out of the Fenton office, and the fact only five doors had any names inscribed on them. “I want to go back there tomorrow. It’s as good a place to start as any. Why were Pat and Mike up there? And why did The Greek meet Benny the Bundle there?”

  “And why was there nobody else on the floor? Strange indeed. Yes, by all means, visit California Street again tomorrow. But be circumspect about it. I’ll contact Shannon and ask whether the address means anything to him.”

  Sam reached for his hat. “I’ve got the doctor coming to see Margaret tonight, so I’m going home.” He pointed a bony finger at T.J. “You’re not going anywhere until you write your report about Pat and Mike and all the rest of it. It can go into Agnes’s file with the information you dug up about their real names.”

  “Including what they call Pat over at the Hall of Justice. They call him ‘Dipstick.’”

  Sam did smile this time. “Yes, let’s not leave out any vital information.”

  *

  T.J. had Agnes in tow when he headed for California Street the next morning. He had decided it was not a good idea to give the elevator operator another chance to eyeball his kisser on the way to the fourth floor. A diversion was needed. Agnes would go in first and take the elevator to the fifth floor while T.J. would head for the stairs unobserved.

  Sam didn’t like losing his secretary, even for only an hour or so. Who would answer the telephone for him? Who would screen his calls or any visitors? “Why not use the back door, from the alley?” he had asked T.J. “They must have one, for deliveries.”

  “It would probably be locked,” T.J. pointed out. “There’s a fire escape, but I sure ain’t going to climb it. Besides, we have to know whether the rest of the building is occupied. Agnes can help with that.”

  So they left Sam in charge of the office. His first order of business was to pluck a slip of paper out of his watch-fob pocket. It had the number Packy Shannon had dictated to him on the way back downtown. Four rings. Five. Six. Finally, someone answered with a curt “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Shannon, please.”

  “Yeah? Who’s calling?”

  “Mr. Sam Flood.”

  Another wait, then Shannon came on. “What’s up, Flood?” he asked without preamble.

  “A building at 230 California seems to be involved in the case. Do you know it?”

  “I might,” Shannon said cautiously. “What’s going on there?”

  “That’s where The Greek met Benny the Bundle before he went to Fisherman’s Wharf. The police are also interested in that address.”

  Shannon waited several seconds before replying. “I own that building,” he said. “That is, the Turk Street Social Club owns it.”

  “You own it!” Sam repeated in disbelief.

  “I told you I was a businessman. I’m in the real estate business, the restaurant business, lots of businesses. These are tough times. A fellow has to diversify.” Another lengthy pause. “We had some plans for the fourth floor, but, ah, they haven’t worked out.”

  Sam hadn’t mentioned the fourth floor. “I think we’d better have another talk,” he said. “Clarify a few things. Clear the air.” He carefully refrained from accusing the mob boss of holding out on him. Shannon claimed to have a busy schedule, but finally agreed to meet Flood that afternoon. “Market Street, just around the corner from Powell,” he said. “One o’clock. The Packard will pick you up.”

  *

  “Potter and McGrady,” Agnes repeated to herself. “Potter and McGrady.” It was the law firm on the fifth floor she and T.J. had looked up before leaving for Cali
fornia Street. She was to use the name if anyone asked where she was going.

  Shivering with excitement at being a Flood and Flood ‘operative’ (not to mention the proximity to T.J.), she gave him a discreet wave a dozen yards away from the 230 address and continued on alone. The plan was for T.J. to hang back until she was in the elevator and then make his move. The lobby was empty when she entered and an ugly little man was lounging on a box just inside the open elevator. “Fifth floor,” Agnes said crisply.

  T.J. entered the lobby with his eye on the ornate needle above the elevator doors. It moved slowly and inexorably toward ‘5.’ In three strides, he was across the lobby and into the stairwell. Several seconds later he paused to catch his breath on the fourth floor, which was as dim and hushed as before. In the silence, he could hear the elevator whining its way downward. Central City first, he thought, as he strode rapidly toward the end of the corridor.

  Lock-pick, do your stuff. T.J. had appropriated the set during his deputy sheriff days and had found them useful on occasion. He knew Sam knew he had the picks, but they never discussed T.J.’s willingness to subvert the law when the opportunity arose. The premises of Central City Distribution Service had a decent amount of floor space. It appeared a wall had been knocked out and two sets of offices combined into one long room. There were long tables set up and several chairs. Along one wall were several stacked crates, stamped with the legend, ‘100 Ornamental Mother of Pearl Boxes’ and some Chinese characters. At the bottom corner of each crate, along with more Chinese writing, were the words, ‘Vassilis Imports Ltd.’ T.J. made some notes, including a careful rendition of the Chinese characters.

  None of the crates were open, and T.J. reckoned he’d have to return with a small crowbar if he wanted a peek inside. He jiggled one. It didn’t seem to have anything of substance in it. Near the door was a desk. Not unlike my own, T.J. thought. The desktop was virginal except for a telephone, its cord trailing into a wall fixture. T.J. took the receiver off its hook. Dead. He went through the drawers in the desk. Empty. No bills of lading for the crates, no invoices, no correspondence. Nothing to indicate Central City was ever in business at any time, except for the crates.

  Now why would two vice cops be interested in this place, T.J. asked himself? Or maybe they found what they were looking for, so I’m out of luck. Upon further reflection, he decided that wasn’t a likely scenario. The reason Pat and Mike had horned into this caper at all was to find whatever Benny the Bundle had that they wanted. Badly wanted. Mother-of-pearl boxes? Naw. Why would Benny pass on an Oriental souvenir box — or whatever the hell they were — to me or anyone else? He tried to recall what Mike had asked him that Sunday morning. “Did Benny try to give you anything?” Something like that.

  They came out of this office before they braced me, I’m pretty sure of that. But suppose they were just checking out the neighborhood? Maybe The Greek and Benny didn’t meet here at all. Maybe it was one of the other offices. T.J. made sure the door to Central City Distribution Service was locked, jiggled the picks in his hand and chose his next target.

  *

  Agnes Wilkins was absent for precisely seventy-five minutes. By the time she had taken off her hat and her jacket, tucked her blouse more firmly into her skirt and checked herself in the mirror, Sam Flood was waiting at the door to his office. He was planning an early lunch and wanted to hear about the California Street assignment before leaving. “In here, Miss Wilkins,” he said curtly.

  Agnes was feeling so buoyant about her successful foray into detecting that Mr. Sam’s sharp tone failed to bring on the usual feeling of dread. She popped into one of the client’s chairs and smiled brightly at her boss.

  “Report,” he ordered. Agnes did, emphasizing that all had gone as planned. “There were people working in offices on the fifth floor,:” she said, “I could hear them. A lot of the offices were empty, though.”

  “And of course, you didn’t see T.J. at any time. So presumably he made it to the fourth floor unobserved,” Sam said. “Thank you, Miss Wilkins. Please prepare a brief report. I’m meeting our new client this afternoon, so when my son comes back, tell him I’ll return. If he gets back.”

  Scrolling a sheet of paper into her Underwood, Agnes paused to dwell upon the choice of preposition in Mr. Sam’s last sentence. “If” he gets back? Was T.J. in danger? She began to worry.

  Chapter 13

  The big sedan accelerated into Market Street traffic, then turned left on Sixth Avenue. Sam Flood recognized the driver as the pug who took him and T.J. to the Palace of Fine Arts the previous day. The Packard rolled smoothly to Howard, turned right and, after a word from Packy Shannon, glided to a halt in the middle of the block.

  There were few other vehicles and even fewer pedestrians around. This stretch of Howard seemed to have shut down for the duration of the bad times. The driver had parked the car in front of a pawnshop. ‘Furby’s,’ the dusty sign in front proclaimed. ‘Money Loaned. We Buy, Sell and Trade.’ However, there was nothing being bought, sold or traded this day, nor any money being loaned. Heavy grating protected grime-streaked windows that had the vacant stare of failure. ‘Furby’s’ was out of business.

  From the next corner came the mournful sound of an accordion accompanying a thin chorus of voices raised in song. The jangle of tambourines added a tinny counterpoint as the Salvation Army ensemble sought out souls to save. “Go get some religion, Vido,” Shannon told the driver. Without a word, Vido slipped out of the car and slowly put some distance between himself and his boss.

  “Okay, peeper,” Shannon said. “You’ve thrown a curve at me with this California Street business. What’s it to you? How did you tie The Greek into it?”

  “T.J. was tailing Benny and Benny led him to 230 California. That was the day we called you. Benny took the elevator to the fourth floor and a few minutes later The Greek came down. Then a few days later, T.J. decided to have a gander at the fourth floor and Pat and Mike show up.” Sam paused, then asked a couple of questions that had been bothering him. “When you first hired us, you suggested Benny was a good lead. Why Benny, and why didn’t you just tag him yourself?”

  “My boys are good at a lot of things, but they ain’t very subtle. Benny would have tumbled them inside an hour. I needed some professionals who knew what they were doing. And why was he a good lead? Well, he was a good guess. Benny was The Greek’s cousin. He sort of looked after him. That numbers racket was pretty small potatoes compared to The Greek’s horse wire, but it kept Benny busy. After The Greek went on the lam, I figured he’d keep in touch with Benny.”

  “What’s so important about the fourth floor?”

  Packy Shannon took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Idly, he tapped his fingers on the armrest and stared out at the derelict pawnshop without really seeing it. “I’m beginning to think it’s more important than I figured,” he said. “The Greek came to us with this deal a little while ago. He had a very big shipment of goods lined up — something completely out of his line — and needed help in swinging it. It was sorta out of my line, too, but I had the kind of boys who could handle it. We did pick up certain skills during Prohibition, you know.”

  “Then The Greek decided to stiff you.” It was a guess, but Sam was sure The Greek had some sort of angle.

  Shannon’s steel-grey eyes examined Sam with the detachment of a butcher assessing a side of beef. Then he permitted himself a throaty chuckle. “Yeah. I kind of persuaded myself that The Greek’s story about hiding out from those threats was true, but it really didn’t sound kosher. Then when he faded the second time, I had to admit he was trying to pull a fast one. The point is, I’d put some time and effort into this caper. We yanked the leases of everybody on the fourth floor — there was only four of them, for Chrissake, that building’s about half-empty, a lousy investment — we yanked their leases, paid them off to clam up and cleared the floor. It was The Greek’s idea and it was jake with me because I was making squat anyway. He set up a phony outfit c
alled Central City-something and said the shipment would be in two parts. First, a bunch of dummy containers, which arrive. Then the real stuff, which was supposed to go into the containers, would follow. I go along with this, and I spend a few bucks and I neglect my houses a little bit, then, you’re right, The Greek decided to stiff me.”

  “So what is this second shipment and where is it?”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you what it is, Flood. Not right now. It’s better for you to be ignorant if the cops start asking awkward questions. Don’t get sidetracked on me. Somebody iced Benny the Bundle and somebody iced The Greek. You’re supposed to find out who. If the goods show up, I’ll deal with whoever’s trying to pull a hijack.”

  Shannon rolled down his window and casually waved his hand. Within seconds, Vido was striding down the sidewalk toward them. On the corner, the Salvation Army group began a shaky rendition of “Rock of Ages.”

  *

  T.J. returned to the office late in the afternoon, to the relief of Agnes and the wary interest of Sam. The younger Flood was not in a good mood and his father knew it. Sprawling into one of the client chairs, T.J. lit an Old Gold, ignoring the smoking protocol that required Sam to reach for his pipe first.

  “This Fenton lug is playing some kind of game,” he growled. “After I tossed the fourth floor, I looked Wallace Fenton up in the phone book. Sure enough, he’s there. Lives on Buchanan, up in the Fillmore district. He’s home and I tell him who I am and would like to talk to him. He says he wants to talk to me, too, he has something to tell me.”

  “How did he sound? — nervous? excited?”

  “He sounded scared,” T.J. continued. “Says he knows something he shouldn’t know and has to tell someone. Told me to meet him at the old Bulletin building on Mission at one o’clock. Said he was leasing a new office there. I arrive a little early and there’s no Fenton listed in the lobby. That’s okay, he hasn’t signed a lease yet, right?”