by Will Rayner
T.J. raised his eyebrows. That seemed to be quite a stretch.
“Packy Shannon dropped in to see me this afternoon and the name came up,” Sam explained. “By the way, the elevator operator at Shannon’s building was found with a bullet hole in his forehead this morning. A .22, if I don’t miss my guess. I expect Jimbo Bracken will be dropping in to chat in person pretty soon.”
T.J. whistled softly. The little dwarf, too. Probably saw something he shouldn’t have. “That makes four. Someone’s pretty damn serious about this load of opium. But give me the dope about the Amber Dawn.”
“Turns out it’s actually a high-speed launch, not a fishing boat at all. Used during Prohibition, according to Packy Shannon. ‘Maintain Maritime Link’ fits in well on the map with where Fisherman’s Wharf would be.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. If we can figure out what ‘Forest Circle’ means, the Alpha point, we’ve completed the triangle. Somewhere along that route is the opium, and the guys who are knocking everybody off.”
“‘Forest Circle,’” Sam repeated. He looked at the map again. “The angles and relative distances are certainly not to scale, but if Beta and Gamma are in San Francisco, then Alpha could be across the bay in Oakland.”
“There’s a lot of trees in the hills over there,” the younger Flood pointed out. “Maybe the shipment is cached in a cave or a shed or something, waiting to get across the bay. Maybe they figure they can’t land it, what with the longshoremen being so shirty.”
“If it’s a private shipment, the union shouldn’t care, as long as it didn’t come through one of the piers they’re picketing. However, from what I heard at the Hall of Justice, there might be a general strike after all, which would complicate things.”
“Humbert Twait’s worst nightmare,” T.J. said. “You want me available this weekend if Bracken decides to drop in again?”
“It would be a good idea not to stray too far. We can learn as much from the lieutenant about the dwarf’s murder as he can from us. You get that Chinese writing translated and I’ll start thinking about getting access to the Amber Dawn. This general strike, if it happens, shouldn’t affect us.”
Sam was quite wrong about that.
*
Dining at the Hong Palace once again brought back bittersweet memories for T.J. He had taken Jessica here for their first date, and they had ordered their first meal here as man and wife. A very old, very understanding waiter named Wang had given them a private booth every time they visited — the kind with a curtain that can be drawn across.
Now, Wang escorted T.J. to another of the booths, but did not draw the curtain. When he returned with the pot of tea, T.J. had set the menu aside and was holding the sketch in his hand. “These characters, Wang, can you tell me what they mean in English?” he asked.
Wang peered at the sketch. “Ah, you want English words, Amellican words, not Chinese words.” T.J. watched Wang’s lips move slightly as he performed the translation in his head. “Ah, you a big business fellah now, Missah Thomas? You go buy things from old country?” Placing the sketch flat on the table, the waiter pointed at each and pronounced the words: “This one ‘Lasting,’ this one, ‘Fortune,’ this one, ‘Trading.’ This last one, it mean, ah, ‘business place?”
“Company?” T.J. suggested.
Wang nodded happily. “You order now?”
“Don’t get your kimono in a knot,” T.J. said. “Just repeat that name.” As Wang recited the English words, he copied them down: Lasting Fortune Trading Company. The name stenciled on the crates at 230 California was identical to the first step on Wally Fenton’s purloined agenda.
After his meal, T.J. phoned his father. They discussed this development in the case briefly, but then Sam had to go because Margaret was calling for him. Too keyed up to head for home, T.J. wandered over to California Street. He had a mind to check those containers out at 230, make sure the lettering was accurate, but the lobby was dark and the front door locked. Thanks for nothing, Jimbo Bracken, T.J. told himself sourly. Time for a drink — maybe three or four.
Abruptly, he reversed direction to head for one of his preferred saloons, and a shadow seemed to melt into one of the doorways farther up the block. “Are you bastards still following me?” T.J. said out loud, and quickened his steps. However, it was hard to tell just where the shadow had been and he could spot no lurking bodies. The conversation with his father drifted through T.J.’s consciousness. Cops or Fenton’s ‘them’ or simple paranoia? The cops could just be keeping an eye on him, but anybody else would be after the list. There was quite a bit of traffic on California, so he wasn’t afraid of being snatched or accosted, but he did wish he’d brought his Detective Special along.
*
Sam Flood had very little time to digest the latest intelligence from T.J. The deciphering of ‘Lasting Fortune’ was a major advance, of course, and as soon as he got Margaret settled comfortably he’d have to think some more about it.
By the time he reached her, his wife was in acute distress. Her memory hadn’t deserted her this time, for she still recognized Sam and Amy, but she was fretful and disoriented. She kept plucking at the armrest of her wheelchair, as if trying to remove it, and several times tried to get up. Amy had to restrain her and calm her down with soothing murmurs of concern.
Sam wondered whether he should call Dr. Funt, — but it was the start of the weekend and he couldn’t really classify this as an emergency. “Let’s go into the parlor, turn on the radio,” he told Amy. “Perhaps that will make her feel better.” Or at least distract her, he told himself. Amy found a program of dance music. The Casa Loma Orchestra filled the room with soft rhythms as Amy went around and turned on a few lights. They made a cheerful haven in the growing dusk.
“Remember the Starlight Ballroom in Winnetka?” Margaret said abruptly. “I loved going out there to dance. We used to take the train.” She giggled. “One night we missed it coming back. Remember? We were too busy sparking.”
Sam laughed softly along with his wife. He did indeed remember that episode — and the ballroom. That was before the war, before he went to work for Southern Pacific and they moved to California. That was before a lot of things.
Just as abruptly, Margaret’s mood changed again. Now she was crying and he went over to comfort her. “Oh, Samuel Adams, I want to go home,” she whispered as tears rolled down her cheek. Sam felt his own eyes misting over in sympathy. He took out his handkerchief and gently wiped the tears from his wife’s cheeks.
“Time to get ready for bed, my dear,” Amy said. “Maybe we’ll have some cocoa. Would you like a nice cup of hot cocoa?” As she wheeled Margaret away, Amy exchanged a glance of commiseration with Sam. He took his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
Listening to an almost excessively cheerful ragtime tune, he thought about his wife’s unhappiness. She missed Chicago so much now, during her more lucid moments. Even after twenty years, almost. Perhaps it was part of advancing age, he didn’t know. Margaret had never come right out and asked him to give up the agency, but he knew it must be in her thoughts from time to time. Anyway, he knew he couldn’t pull out — not with this unfinished business about Benny the Bundle. Forgive me for thinking this, he told himself, but when Margaret finally lapses into permanent dementia, she won’t know where she is, anyway.
Chapter 24
It wasn’t all that bright and early when T.J. showed up at the office Monday morning, but nevertheless the door to the corridor was locked and the place was dark. No Pop and even more curious, no Agnes.
He opened up, turned on the lights and stationed himself behind Agnes’s desk. Lighting a cigarette and opening his early edition of the Daily News, he cottoned on to what was happening. The agency had been bitten by the general strike. No streetcars. No cable car running, either. No way for pop and Agnes to get to work.
The front page of the paper filled in some of the details. The strike had actually started before the weekend, when the Teamsters refu
sed to drive any trucks into the city. At a big labor meeting on Saturday night, plans were made to shut down San Francisco. “Logic has all gone out of the window,” one union leader was quoted as saying, continuing: “The thing is being ruled now by passion and hatred.” Butchers, barbers, cooks and waiters, auto mechanics, laundry workers, streetcar conductors and many others all took to the bricks.
That was why my normal breakfast joint was closed, T.J. thought. And all those pedestrians on Bush Street. And only a few cars. Fuel deliveries had been halted and nobody wanted to waste gas. Apparently, food deliveries had been disrupted, too, and there had been a run on grocery stores during the weekend. T.J. wondered whether the saloons were open.
The telephone rang. It was his father, stating the obvious. With no transportation, he had opted against walking downtown from Vallejo Street. “I can walk over and get the car, come pick you up,” T.J. volunteered. “If the garage is not on strike, of course.”
“That’s a point. But don’t bother. I’ll just sit tight here.” (And keep an eye on Margaret, Sam told himself.) “No use wasting gas unless we really need the Essex. We don’t know how long this disruption is going to last.”
“Not long, I’d guess,” T.J. said. “I went for a stroll along the Embarcadero on the weekend and they were moving tanks in. More soldiers, too. Governor Merriam ain’t kidding when he says the unions are in big trouble for cocking a snoot at the established order. The state or the feds will force a settlement of some sort before long.”
“Any word about our Communist friend, Harry Bridges, while you were down there?”
“Oh yes, now that you mention it. The dockworkers were all glad to see their old pal, me — otherwise known as ‘Tommy’— but damned ticked off because Bridges has been shut out of the strike leadership. There was this big meeting of all the unions and Red Harry was defeated for the vice-presidency. He’s still on the General Strike Committee, but he hasn’t got much clout.”
“Strange that he’s been shoved aside, seeing as how this whole mess is supposed to be in support of his union. Perhaps the Industrial Association’s Red smear is working. Be that as it may, however. I trust Lieutenant Bracken will be dropping in to accuse us of complicity in the elevator operator’s death. Tell him I’m unavoidably detained.”
“Yeah, I trust ol’ Jimbo has lots of transportation, strike or no strike. He’ll be along directly, I expect.”
Sam’s phone call was followed immediately by one from Agnes. She was apologetic and distraught about not getting to work. “But there’s no streetcars and I couldn’t get a ride from anybody! Please tell Mr. Sam I did my best.”
T.J. found himself grinning at Agnes’s utter dedication to Flood and Flood. “There ain’t no Mr. Sam either, sweetheart. He’s in the same boat you are. So just take it easy until this blows over. I’m in complete charge here and I have the situation under control.”
“But what about the filing, and there’s the mail to open.”
”You can let the filing slide for a day or two, and I can open the mail. I’m a big boy now.”
After Agnes had rung off, T.J. finished reading the paper and tried to do some strategic thinking about the Shannon case. Four people rubbed out, and for what reason? One, Benny the Bundle got his because he was about to spill something. Two, The Greek was probably disagreeing about something. Three, Li’l Wally had discovered something. And Number Four, the dwarf — why did someone kiss him goodbye? Did he overhear something?
An awful lot of empty somethings there, T.J. thought. What we need is one big something, and that’s gotta be the opium. But where in hell’s half acre is it? And who wants it bad enough to kill four people?
The mail arrived. The postman, whom T.J. vaguely knew as Clive, was not surprised to find him holding the fort alone. A lot of offices were deserted, he said, and a whole bunch of stores and business closed. But the United States Post Office bravely carries on, T.J. thought, through thick and thin, through shot and shell, through strike and strife. He had actually wondered briefly whether the mail would be affected by the situation, then realized the posties were federal and the feds wouldn’t stand for anything like that.
There was nothing of substance in that morning’s delivery, except a long envelope from Twait’s Superior Cartage & Dray. The check for the Bridges’ expenses, T.J. guessed. He pulled out his watch. Time for an early lunch — but where? He looked up Emrick’s in Agnes’s phone directory and gave them a call. Yes, they were open for business, but only regulars were being allowed in because of the crush of thirsty customers. Well, I certainly qualify, T.J. told himself. “Reserve me a stool,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
*
T.J. let a few muffled curses float through the deserted premises of Flood and Flood. He wanted the Turk Street file, but it was locked in the file cabinet. The key to the cabinet was in Agnes’s desk, which was also locked. Where was the key to the desk? At Agnes’s place, in her purse.
He knew the Old Man had backup keys stashed somewhere, but all the drawers in his desk were firmly locked, so that was that. Great security we got here, gang, T.J. told himself — except when I’m the only guy to show up for work. He supposed he could get his set of lock picks and go to work on the desks, but that was, well, unethical. Even for me, he thought. T.J. had resigned himself to some heavy thinking without the benefit of any documents when Lieutenant James T. Bracken presented himself.
T.J. heard Bracken’s reedy twang expressing surprise that the outer office was deserted. “In here, lieutenant,” he called.
“Well, it’s the younger Flood all by his self, deserted by the rest of the gang,” Bracken said, tossing his hat onto one chair and sinking into the other.
“Yeah, well, they couldn’t get to work because there’s a stupid streetcar strike on, but you flatfeet wouldn’t notice that, what with all the fancy transportation you’ve got.”
“Oh, we’ve noticed alright, Thomas my lad,” Bracken said. “At least the uniformed division has. I must confess trolleys are not my line, unless of course someone gets done in on one of them. Which brings me to the purpose of my friendly chat, the ‘done in’ bit, that is.”
“The dwarf at 230 California is dead.”
“Yes, he is. Good for you, Thomas. I suppose your very astute pater told you that because he was in my office last Friday when we got the news. What he didn’t tell you is that we’ve figured out the little fellow — his name was Lance Termit, by the way — succumbed by means of a .22 slug about seven o’clock in the morning in his own elevator. Which is why I thought I might ask a few people where they were at that hour.”
“I was in bed, where I belonged,” T.J. said rudely.
“Alone, I presume, so there’s no one to vouch for you,” Bracken began. At T.J.’s look of venom, he hastily added: “I take that back, young Thomas, of course I do. That wasn’t a nice thing to say, at all.” Young Mr. Flood was still carrying a torch for his wife, so I was really off base there, Bracken admitted to himself. To cover his discomfiture, he reached for a cigar.
Oh, oh, here comes one of Jimbo’s smelly torpedoes, T.J. thought. He fired up an Old Gold in self-defense.
“Mr. Sam, of course, will have his delightful Margaret to vouch for him, so I’m really not suspecting the Floods in this one at all.”
“What about Agnes Wilkins?” T.J. asked. “Better check her out, too. Maybe she’s a gun moll hired by Flood and Flood just to make your miserable life even more miserable. A .22 is a girl’s gun, a sissy’s gun. You’re missing a bet there, Jimbo.”
“You’re being cheeky again, Thomas.” Bracken blew some cigar smoke in the general direction of the younger Flood. “Actually, we in homicide have pretty well figured out there’s a sort of crime wave going on. Four people, all from different walks of life, sent to their reward with the same kind of weapon. We don’t think Flood and Flood is really into that sort of violent behavior.”
“Off the hook at last,” T.J. exclaimed with mock re
lief.
“Which is not to say you’re not involved. Some of us over at the Hall think the Floods are working for Packy Shannon and what you’re doing for him is the connection — the key.”
“Even if I admitted any relationship with Shannon, I can’t give you any details, you know that, Jimbo.”
“Of course, young Thomas, of course. We wouldn’t have it any other way, would we then? The thing is, you see, the thing is, the late Mr. Termit was a little more than an elevator operator. He was the caretaker for that building and he had his own little room in the basement. So he must have known a lot about what was going on. Like for instance, that very building is owned by the Turk Street Social Club, which of course is Packy Shannon’s outfit.”
T.J. kept his face blank at the mention of Shannon’s link with 230 California. Also, the news that the building had a basement started him wondering what was down there. Like, maybe, a big shipment of opium?
“You’ve fallen silent, young Thomas. I do hope I haven’t startled you too much. But I thought that news might be a little compensation for that sketch you dug up — the diagram and the agenda and all that. Your good father was wise to involve us with that, and this latest murder compels us to have another very close look at the fourth floor.”
“Those two monsters from vice have been all over that floor more than once,” T.J. pointed out.
“Yes, the ineffable Pat and Mike certainly have. And so have you, my lad, haven’t you? Vice and homicide don’t necessarily travel the same paths, though we may both end up at the same destination. We rather think vice is looking very hard for a missing shipment of some sort — drugs, probably. And all these unfortunate deaths are probably part of it. We don’t exactly pass mash notes to each other, but we try to keep in touch.”
Interesting, T.J. thought. The level of cooperation between the two squads didn’t seem to be all that high. He wondered whether Pat and Mike’s overwhelming presence had anything to do with it. “Well, thanks for going out of your way to keep us up to date,” he said. “The old man will appreciate it.” He wanted the homicide dick to leave so he could make some detailed notes.