by Will Rayner
“A very hard shove.” It wasn’t a question. T.J. was thinking about the push that separated him from Wally Fenton during the mob scene on Howard.
“Yes. I went to my knees. My hat went flying. Then the second shove was more of a heave and the next thing I knew I was in the water. Then I felt this sharp stick prodding me, pushing me under.”
“A boat hook, probably,” T.J. said.
“Well, thanks to another boat hook, I’m still here. I’m told a fisherman latched on and hauled me out. Did you manage to track down my Good Samaritan?”
“Nope. All I could get was he spoke with an Italian accent, had a big moustache and wore seaman’s clothes. A description like that could fit almost anybody around the wharf.”
Amy excused herself to go and check on Margaret, who had been napping most of the afternoon. “What did your wife say about your little adventure?” T.J. asked.
“I told her I tripped and fell into the drink. She scolded me, of course, for being so careless.” And assumed I fell into Lake Michigan, Sam remembered.
“We’d better tell Jimbo Bracken, too,” T.J. said. When his father started shaking his head, he pressed on: “He knows we know about Fisherman’s Wharf. We gave him the goddamn map, for Chrissake. Someone tried to bump you off. The cops gotta be in on this. And Shannon, too.”
“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in my house, please, Thomas,” Sam said reprovingly. “Lieutenant Bracken knows about the wharf, yes, but not the Amber Dawn, I believe.”
“So don’t mention the boat. We’ll tell him you were just sort of checking things out.”
“I suppose you’re right. I’ll call the Hall on Monday when I go into the office.”
“No, you won’t. The doc said at least a couple more days at home. I’ll do the talking. You stay put.”
“This is all very embarrassing.” Sam sighed. “But I agree, I suppose. You call the lieutenant and report this incident. You might also get a chance to find out if they’ve made any progress on these murders. At the moment, I’d have to say we haven’t.”
Heading for the car, T.J. realized he didn’t tell his father about the brass key. If it fitted the locked wheelhouse door on the Amber Dawn, that would certainly be progress.
*
“I want to report an attempted murder,” T.J. told Jimbo Bracken.
The silence on the line stretched out until he almost asked whether Bracken was still there. “A so-called attempted homicide could easily be assault — nothing more,” the lieutenant finally said. “The thing is, I don’t do assaults, but you’d better spill what you have, anyway.”
“My old man got shoved into the drink down at Fisherman’s Wharf last Thursday,” T.J. said bluntly. “Deliberately. And then someone tried to drown him by pushing him under with a boat hook. I think that qualifies under the heading, ‘Murder, Attempted’.”
“This happened last week?” Bracken demanded. His voice was sharp now, the wariness gone. “Sam’s okay, is he?”
“Yeah, the old man managed to survive,” T.J. said. “He’s at home recuperating, as they say.”
“Better give me all the details you’ve got.”
T.J. repeated Sam’s version of the encounter and added what he had learned from the ambulance attendant.
“So what was Sam doing on this dock or jetty or whatever the hell it was in the first place?” Bracken asked.
“Jimbo, you know the wharf is connected to this Benny business. We’ve all pretty well figured out it’s the Beta point on the sketch we gave you. Pop was just looking around.”
“Snooping, more like it. When is the plucky senior member of Flood and Flood due back at work? I want to come over and talk to you guys a little bit.”
“Tomorrow, probably. You know you are welcome at any time, lieutenant.” Yeah, right, T.J. told himself as he hung up.
*
Agnes Wilkins retrieved Packy Shannon’s private number from the Turk Street file and dialed it for T.J.
“Yeah?” grated a voice.
“This is T.J. Flood from Flood and Flood. Put Packy Shannon on, please.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“Just pass me on to Mr. Shannon. I called him, not you.”
There was no answer. The phone fell silent for several seconds and T.J. began to wonder whether he should have been more diplomatic. Finally, Shannon answered.
“What do you want, Flood? Where’s the boss?”
“He’s at home, taking it easy. Someone pushed him into the bay at Fisherman’s Wharf, tried to drown him. There’s a couple of things we’ve gotta discuss.”
Shannon whistled softly. “Sam must be getting close to somebody or something. What do the cops say? I suppose they’ll try to pin this on me, too.”
“Apparently, there wasn’t a big black Packard parked on the street, so they’re keeping an open mind at the moment.”
“What kind of crack was that? You’ve got a big mouth on you, little man. I hope you’ve got more dope to pass on than cheap wisecracks. Hang on.” After only a few seconds, Shannon came back on the line. “Lunch at Mulroney’s — 12:30. Tell the maitre d’ you’re a guest of Mr. Turk.” Then Shannon was gone for good.
T.J. wasn’t sure Sam would approve of his approach to Shannon. They had briefly discussed the necessity of keeping their client briefed, but Sam hadn’t specifically authorized T.J. to do so. Tough, T.J. told himself. I don’t need a note from my daddy before I can do anything. The attack at the wharf meant the case was starting to break and Shannon was a key player. He couldn’t wait for pop to get back in the game. Besides, he wanted the lowdown on Bracken’s visit to Shannon’s digs the other day.
The fact Mulroney’s had private dining rooms was no surprise. Any joint catering to the business class had to offer privacy of some sort so deals could be made away from prying ears. The one T.J. and Shannon shared was on the small side, with a table that would serve perhaps six. He took his time scanning the menu, then ordered the same meal as before: corned beef and cabbage. “And bring me a draft Pabst, too,” he said. Shannon ordered a bowl of chowder and coffee.
“I see where Dillinger got his yesterday,” T.J. said as they waited for the food. “Gunned down in Chicago. Betrayed by a woman in red, the paper said.”
“An amateur,” Shannon sneered. “A two-bit crook trying to pretend he was in the big time. Any punk can hold up a bank.”
After their meals arrived, they ate and drank in silence for a few minutes. Finally, T.J. got down to business. He explained how his father was trying to check out the Amber Dawn when the fog rolled in and he suddenly found himself in the harbor. “You don’t have anyone working for you down there has a big moustache and looks like a fisherman?” he asked. “He certainly saved my old man’s bacon.”
“We hadn’t paid much attention to seagoing matters since our, ah, importing days,” Shannon said. “No need to. The stuff I’m involved with now is pretty well land-based. However, The Greek sorta put us back on the water, so to speak. Maybe I should have a few boys hanging around Fisherman’s Wharf. The thought has crossed my mind that we might need some fast transportation, after all.”
“The opposition — your opposition — seems to have an unhealthy interest in the Amber Dawn. They’ll need something like it to pick up the goods they’re trying to hijack away from you. They’ve knocked off four people already — almost five — so I suggest they’re pretty serious.”
“I’m serious, too. That’s why we hired you guys, to find out who was doing all the shooting. You do that and my boys will look after the goods. And the Amber Dawn if we have to.”
“You want to know where your so-called goods are, Packy? They’re on a freighter anchored in the upper bay. We’ve figured that out for you. Your goods — let’s cut through the baloney and call it opium — can’t get ashore because of the strike. The Greek had set up a neat little agenda, including a little map he drew. The dope shows up, from China or Japan or wherever. The Amber Dawn scoots out an
d picks it up. It then gets transported to the fourth floor at 230 California, where it’s packaged in all those little ornamental boxes.”
“I knew about the little boxes, because I paid for them.,” Shannon said. “ But the rest of this is new. This is the deal The Greek made with the mugs who muscled their way in. The guys who put The Greek on the run. By the way, let’s call it ‘stuff.’ Until I get my hands on it, it’s ‘stuff.’ And if I get my hands on whoever’s trying to pull this caper, they’ll be dead stuff.”
“And you wonder why Jimbo Bracken’s got you and your boys pegged for all these murders. Threats like that they call motive down at the Hall. By the way, how did it go when the cops tossed your private joint next to the opera house the other day?”
Shannon finished his soup and took a sip of coffee. “You boys got good connections. Bracken enjoyed himself, pushed some of my girls around, got them crying, opened a lot of drawers, threw a lot of lingerie around, didn’t find squat. Then we all went to the garage down the street so he could inspect my fleet of Packards.”
“Trying to tie you in with the one someone spotted outside the building when the dwarf got iced. It was a setup, of course, but there ain’t that many big, black Packards around. Everybody knows they’re reserved for crime bosses, anyway.”
Shannon fixed T.J. with an icy stare. “You know, Flood, you’ve got a big mouth,” he hissed. ‘Crime bosses.’ Jesus. That’s pulp magazine talk. I’m a businessman. If you don’t like the business I’m in, take a hike. With that yap of yours, you’re like some two-bit fighter who figures his jab is gonna put him in the big time. Lemme tell you something. You need more than a sharp tongue to be a shamus. You need some moxie, some smarts. You need a knockout punch. So let’s try to keep our conversation on a businesslike level.”
Oh dear, T.J. thought. I’ve just been severely chastised and told to sit in the corner. “You sent two Packards to pick up The Greek at the wharf the night we called you, Packy. How many do you have, anyway?”
“Never mind. We ‘crime bosses,’ to use your quaint phrase, use big saloons like the Packard because you can get a lot of folks in them and they’re powerful and hard to knock off the road. They’re much more functional then those radio cars farting up and down the street with flatfeet hanging onto them.”
“When The Greek got picked up on California Street, he got into an Oldsmobile. Are Oldsmobiles part of your, ah, ‘business fleet’, too? Or The Greek’s?”
“Nuts. An Olds is a fancy car for fancy guys. I’ll bet it belonged to somebody else, not The Greek.”
The thought that had been chasing its tail around the murkier regions of T.J.’s consciousness finally surfaced. “Your two vice buddies, Pat and Mike, favor an Oldsmobile,” he said. T.J. Flood and Packy Shannon looked at each other over the remains of their lunch. Pat and Mike. Why not?
Chapter 29
Sam Flood turned the brass key around in his hands, inspecting it from all angles. Then he studied the two smaller keys attached to the ring. “The brass one needs a fairly substantial keyhole,” he said, “and if my memory is accurate, that’s what the wheelhouse door on the Amber Dawn has. These other ones could quite possibly be ignition keys.”
“So toss them over and I’ll toddle down to Fisherman’s Wharf right now,” T.J. said. “Turn the key in the lock and bingo!, I’m inside and laughing.”
“Not so fast, Thomas. The Amber Dawn is obviously under surveillance. Perhaps by the murderer, perhaps by Pat and Mike. We will need to plan our next moves carefully. And you know Lieutenant Bracken is on the way over. Did you discuss the key with Packy Shannon at this lunch I wasn’t informed about?”
“C’mon, Pop. Do I have to sign in and sign out? Get a note for the teacher? I called Bracken and I called Shannon about you doing your high-diving act. Shannon invited me to lunch. And no, we didn’t discuss the key.”
Sam let his son’s tart response pass. This was certainly no time to rake each other over the embers of authority and accountability. And T.J. has certainly introduced an intriguing line of inquiry. “How did Mr. Shannon take to your theory of the Oldsmobiles? It’s a pretty thin thread, but one that could fill in a few of the gaps.”
“He liked it. After all, it gets him off the hook and, as a bonus, disposes of two vice cops who keep poking their fingers into his affairs. But we really didn’t talk about my little brainwave too much. He was more interested in knowing where his dope was. I managed to stall him, convince him it wouldn’t be wise to move too soon and his goods weren’t going anywhere, anyway.”
“By the way, we won’t mention your Pat and Mike theory to Jimbo Bracken. We go over my little mishap but that’s all. No mention that we’ve pinpointed the Alpha point, the Forest Circle, either. You and I and Shannon can talk all we want about two members of the San Francisco Police Department being involved in homicides and drug-running, but Bracken needs more than a string of coincidences. It’s not a charge we can throw around lightly. Two vice squad detectives trying to muscle in on an illegal operation? Shades of Chicago during Prohibition. There’s lots more spade-work needed, because we’ll have to have rock-solid, incontrovertible proof before we hand Pat and Mike over to anybody on a plate.”
“That big, fat head of Pat the Dipstick is gonna look good on a plate, mark my words,” T.J. growled.
*
The Floods had been expecting Jimbo Bracken. Instead, they got Pat and Mike. The pair waltzed past Agnes’s outraged protests, Pat slammed Sam’s door open and Mike followed him inside.
“All right, Thomas Jefferson Flood, where’s that evidence you lifted from the Brice residence?” Mike Wales grated. His veneer of jolly politeness had disappeared. “Hand it over, you’re interfering with police business.”
“Police business, my foot,” T.J. snapped back. “What’s a pair of overgrown flatfeet doing poking into a homicide, anyway? What a lot of horse manure!”
“We don’t need a smartass peeper to tell us our job,” Mike said. “Cough up that stuff you lifted or we’ll search this joint down to this shiny floor of yours. Then we’ll charge you and pop here with obstruction.”
“Ain’t that a hot one!” T.J. laughed. “Obstruction of what? Tea drinking? Pinky lifting?”
Sam heard the big, silent one by the door growl. He had better defuse the situation, and quickly. “Ah, I don’t believe I’ve met you two gentlemen,” he said. “You do have some sort of identification, of course?”
“I’m Wales and he’s ... Pat,” Mike said, jerking his head at this partner. “Sonny-boy knows who we are, and what we want.”
“Yeah, I know them,” T.J. snickered. “Pat’s real name is Dipstick.”
“Thomas, these gentlemen must be talking about those files from Turlock that you have in your office,” Sam said mildly. “Perhaps you should fetch them for us.” What an unpleasant pair, he thought. Let Pat and Mike puzzle over the dummy documents T.J. had used as cover. The map and its agenda were safely in Jimbo Bracken’s hands. Although Dr. Funt had told him to stay off tobacco for a few days, the tension in his office made Sam reach for his pipe.
“Sure thing, Pop,” T.J. said. He unfolded himself from his chair. Pat’s really going to have steam coming out of his ears, trying to decipher that government gobbledygook, he thought. “As soon as the Coit Tower over there moves his fat ass and gets out of my way.”
“Go with him, Pat,” Mike ordered. “Make sure there’s no funny business.”
“Yeah, no funny busyness, Mr. private detecative,” Pat said, propelling T.J. toward his office with one hand clamped tightly on his shoulder. Inside the office, he gave T.J. a shove that sent the younger Flood sprawling across his desk. Grimly, without saying a word, T.J. righted himself and went around to sit in his chair.
“They’re in this drawer,” he said softly, reaching down to where he kept the Detective Special. When T.J. straightened up, the gun was in his hand. “Come one step closer, you big tub of lard and I’ll plug you in that fat gut of yours
,” he snarled.
*
“Why Mr. Bracken, how nice to see you!” Agnes Wilkins trilled loudly. The diminutive homicide lieutenant had arrived in the nick of time, as far as she was concerned. Those two huge men barging right into Mr. Sam’s without so much as a how-do-you-do had quite upset her. She knew from T.J.’s reports that they had to be Pat and Mike. Then she heard the loud voices arguing, then T.J. came out and was — forced — that was the word for it, into his own office. Agnes had feared there would be real violence at any minute. Somebody was going to get hurt, for sure.
“Well then, what do we have here?” Jimbo Bracken asked as he observed Pat backing out of T.J.’s office with his hands raised.
“He pulled a gat on me, he threatened me,” Pat said, turning toward Bracken.
“What gun? Who says so? I ain’t got no gun,” T.J. said from the door of his office. Technically, he was quite correct. The Detective Special was back in his desk drawer.
“Tsk, tsk. You haven’t been threatening an officer of the law, young Thomas, have you?” Bracken asked. “That’s a serious offence, indeed it is.”
“We’re taking these two jaspers down to the Hall, lieutenant,” Mike said, appearing in Sam’s doorway. “Obstruction, suppression of evidence, pointing a weapon.”
“No, you’re not,” Sam said from behind him. The senior member of Flood and Flood was blocked by the big vice cop, but his voice was firm and authoritative. “If we go anywhere, it’s to lay charges of police harassment and illegal entry.”
“Alright everybody, into Mr. Sam’s office,” Bracken said, ushering them ahead of him with a shooing motion of his hands. “Let’s get this little disagreement straightened out.” Inside, Sam went behind his desk and T.J. flopped into one of the client chairs. Bracken took the other one and Sam loosed a quiet sigh of relief. He had visions of the chair collapsing under the weight of either overgrown specimen from vice.