by Will Rayner
“Never mind that, partner. Keep Mr. Private Detective covered while I hide the Oldsmobile. I suspect that particular model is getting too noticeable.”
“Why the Olds?” T.J. asked. “Prestige, showing off, what?”
“Actually, they are more comfortable for people of our, ah, dimensions,” Mike said. “And more powerful. Also, we didn’t have to go through the department’s motor pool to requisition one. So we made our own private arrangements.” In other words, they stole them, T.J. thought.
*
Sam couldn’t wait any longer. He phoned the Hall of Justice again, but Jimbo Bracken hadn’t checked in. The operator at the bureau wouldn’t tell him where the lieutenant was, either. “Pursuing a line of inquiry,” was all he would say.
“Tell Lieutenant Bracken that Mr. Sam Flood is on his way to Fisherman’s Wharf,” he said. “He’ll know what that means. Ask him to please meet me there as soon as he can.”
Sam then phoned the garage and told the night mechanic that he was coming over to get the Essex. He knew the mechanic would check the fuel and oil levels for him, and the tires. Sam debated whether to call Packy Shannon and ask for his help. In the end, he decided against it. One could argue this was Shannon’s fight as well as the Floods’, but it didn’t seem proper involving the criminal element in what was essentially a police matter.
Sam adjusted his new fedora firmly on his head, looked at his watch one more time, checked that he had his pipe and tobacco pouch, and turned out all the lights. Time to go into action, Sam Flood told himself as he locked the corridor door.
*
Pat kept the .38 pointed in the general direction of T.J. as he rifled through his wallet with one hand. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of me overpowering him, T.J. thought. He’s got a point there.
“Who’s the doll?” Pat asked, pulling out a picture of T.J.’s wife in her wedding gown. “None of your damn business, Dipstick,” T.J. snapped, grabbing for the photograph. Pat easily kept it out of reach with one hand while clubbing T.J. on the head with the gun. The younger Flood fell against the bunk. His head hurt where Dipstick had clocked him, and so did his thigh from hitting the edge of the bunk. It took him a few seconds to realize he had fallen against the big brass key on the ring in his pocket.
T.J. struggled to his feet, while wrapping his right hand around the key ring. “Whatcha got in your pocket, peeper?” Pat asked. He had stopped leering at T.J.’s wife.
“Only my set of keys,” T.J. said, pulling them out. With one swift, underhand motion, he flung the heavy ring at Pat’s head. The detective threw up his arms in a defensive reflex and T.J. launched a roundhouse left that caught Pat solidly on his jaw. It hardly fazed Pat, but as he took half a step backward, T.J. followed through with a kick in the nether regions.
Pat definitely took notice of that and doubled over. T.J. helped him on his way by grabbing his hair and propelling him forward until his face came in contact with T.J.’s knee. Dipstick dropped the Detective Special. With one hand, T.J. picked it up while the other snatched his wife’s picture out of Pat’s loose grip. As Pat lay on the deck, T.J. put the picture away in its special spot, tucked the wallet into an inner pocket, shook his clothing straight and pointed his gun at Dipstick. Guess we’ll await developments, he told himself.
Perhaps five minutes passed before T.J. felt the Amber Dawn heel again. Mike Wales had returned. As soon as the detective’s head came in view, T.J. snapped: “Hold it right there, pal.”
Smoothly, the .22 had appeared in Mike’s hand. He glanced over at Pat, who was now standing up against the galley stove and glowering. “I do believe we may have a standoff here,” Mike said. “You can’t shoot both of us before either Pat or I get to you, and the moment you point that gun at me, I’ll drill you. So I suggest you don’t even try.”
At least this guy’s got balls, T.J. thought. I’ve got a .38 and he’s got a .22 and he’s threatening me? “What gives with that sissy popgun anyway?” he asked. “A big, manly galoot like you should be packing a .45, not a girl’s gun.”
“Something I picked up in the good old days,” Mike said. “It has a silencer, which is nice, and I didn’t want to attract undue notice when I attended to Benny. And I sort of kept using it.”
“Well pal,” T.J. told Wales, “let’s look at things this way. You’re at least a dozen feet away, hanging onto a ladder. You’re not going to plug me between the eyes, not with those big fingers and that skinny gun. You much prefer jamming it against somebody’s skull, then pulling the trigger.”
“Forget the song and dance, Thomas,” Mike ordered. “Drop the gun. Or else.”
Or else what, T.J. asked himself? Well, let’s find out. He shot Pat in the knee. The big detective screamed and collapsed, clutching his leg. Simultaneously, T.J. heard the muted bark of the .22 and felt a sudden, sharp pain in his upper arm. By gosh, he’s winged me, he told himself. I kinda hoped he’d miss. T.J. tried to raise the .38 with his wounded arm as Mike moved down the ladder in an effort to get closer.
At that moment, a large hand grabbed the vice cop’s collar from above and Mike’s next shot went wild. A sturdy boot kicked Wales to the deck of the cabin and Vido Cerutti followed. The long-barrelled revolver in his hand was pointed at the detective’s head. “You okay, Mr. Flood?” Vido asked in a high tenor. “Mr. Shannon asked me to keep an eye on you.” It was the first time T.J. had heard Vido speak.
Suddenly, the Amber Dawn was bathed in the white glare of a searchlight. “Come out with your hands up,” a voice blared. T.J. giggled. “I’ll go up, Vido,” he said. “You keep an eye on these two clowns.” In the wheelhouse, he shielded his eyes from the glare with his good arm and called out to someone he could barely make out on the dock, “Is that you, Jimbo?”
“Actually, it’s me, son,” Sam Flood said as the light went out. “However, Lieutenant Bracken is here, too, if you wish to speak with him.”
Chapter 32
The air inside Sam Flood’s private office was redolent with tobacco smoke. Sam had his pipe going, Jimbo Bracken was puffing on a long cigar and T.J. was smoking an Old Gold. The younger Flood ached in several places. Although his arm had only suffered a flesh wound, it still hurt, fifteen hours after the showdown with Pat and Mike. The side of his head felt tender where Pat had swatted him with the .38, and his hand was swollen from clipping the big ape on the jaw.
“Well then, young Thomas Flood, how are you feeling?” Bracken asked. “I do believe I asked that very same question several weeks ago, when this unfortunate series of events began.”
“I had a sore head then and I have a sort head now,” T.J. said gruffly. “I’ve also got a hole in my arm and a swollen hand. But I suppose I’ll survive, no thanks to the San Francisco Police Department.”
“Now, now Thomas, Lieutenant Bracken and his men did what they had to do,” Sam observed.
“And its encouraging news indeed that you are still in command of your faculties,” Bracken added. “The thing is, young Thomas, the thing is, you will be a prime witness when our two miscreants now in custody appear before a court of law.”
T.J. grunted. “Surely Pat and Mike are not trying to deny their involvement,” Sam said.
“Oh no. In fact, detectives Wales and Pis-zek have been most cooperative.” Bracken had pronounced Pat’s name correctly, but distinctly separated the two syllables.
“Indeed they are quite proud of their little crime spree,” Bracken continued. “But young Thomas here heard them confess to all four murders — as he informed us in detail at the hospital last night — and he saw the murder weapon, the .22, actually in Mike’s possession. The bullets we have recovered will match those which did in poor Benny, of course they will.”
“Did they mention why they kept following me and pop around like a bad smell?” T.J. asked.
“Well, first of all they thought dear, departed Benny had passed on a note naming the vessel carrying the, ah, shipment they were interested in, and the date of its
arrival. The way I got it figured, Benny picked that information up when he stopped at the Ferry Building that one time. Later on, we reckon, Pat and Mike found out on their own hook — by bribing somebody, perhaps, or tapping a source in Mainland China -— and that’s when their priorities changed to getting control of the Amber Dawn. They figured, quite rightly, that you two fine fellows could help them in that regard.”
“Dumping me in the drink was a miscalculation, I’d say,” Sam said. “Pat certainly had to notice — it had to be Pat, because Mike was in Turlock, we found out later — that I didn’t have access to the boat. So trying to kill me then didn’t seem to have much of a point.”
“Youthful annoyance, I’d say, Samuel. And if you had indeed drowned, it would have drawn even more attention to Fisherman’s Wharf. Detective Piszek is not a clear thinker.”
“He still wouldn’t have gotten the keys, because I had them on my ring,” T.J. said.
“Quite. And if Mike had simply shot you on sight in the cabin and taken the keys instead of pausing to gloat — and deciding to move his precious Oldsmobile — they might very well be on their way to parts unknown by now.”
T.J. looked at his father. “You were really going to take them on all by yourself?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed,” Bracken answered while Sam busied himself tamping down his pipe. “He was on his way down the dock when we arrived. By the way, I must apologize for being out of touch for so long last night. We subjected ourselves to a wild goose chase regarding Pat and Mike’s secret lair.”
“Is that about it?” T.J. demanded. “I need a drink.” The bandage on his arm felt too tight and it was starting to itch.
“I guess so, boys.” Bracken said, “Oh, one more thing. The remarkably observant Wellington Koo called to ask whether the name, Hayashi Maru, meant anything to anyone connected with Benny the Bundle and his tragic accident. The folks at homicide aren’t too interested, unless there’s another stiff floating around somewhere. How about you boys? How about that mysterious client of yours, whose initials, I do believe, are Packy Shannon?”
“Hayashi Maru, you say?” Sam Flood answered with a hint of boredom in his voice. “Is that Japanese?”
Jimbo Bracken stood up, inspected his dead cigar and put his hat on. “See you later, boys,” he said as he headed for the door. “There’ll be a lot of boring legal stuff later on, of course there will, so don’t take a train anywhere, either of you. I shall also mention to my superiors that a pair of private dicks named Flood and Flood provided some, ah, assistance in solving this case, even though you cut a lot of corners with your methods and withheld information during a homicide investigation. If it hadn’t turned out the way it had, I’d be landing on the pair of you with hobnailed boots. Just don’t pull another stunt like this again.”
“I think the authorities have just posted a Flood Warning,” T.J. said to his father, grinning.
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