The enormity of it, the hopelessness of it, fell on me. Andrew Carmichael wasn’t given to exaggerating or making idle threats. He didn’t say much, but whatever he said had weight behind it. Intent. That’s why so many men respected him. And feared him. I didn’t think I could speak, but I said, “We used to be friends.”
“Friends didn’t get me this far this fast. I don’t have any friends. I have assets. Mayor Walker was an asset. You were an asset when Doyle was running things, but you became a liability when Reform came around. You defied me on this case from the start, and you’re going to pay for it. Now, get on your feet and get out of my sight.”
I did what I was told and slowly got to my feet. Carmichael stayed where he was, but he’d opened his eyes. The two of us just looked at each other for a long, long time. I thought about pulling my sap and clubbing the son of a bitch to death right then and there. Maybe claim it was the result of his injuries from the riot. But I gave up on the idea. Not because he wasn’t worth it, but because I didn’t think I’d get away with it.
I cleared my throat. “Despite everything you’ve just told me, I’d still like to see this through to the end. No matter what you do to me afterwards.”
Carmichael relaxed and closed his eyes again. “Fine. But if you mention any of this to your boyfriend Van Dorn, or his Kike mouthpiece, I’ll have you thrown out of this house and brought back home in cuffs. I’ll post men in your apartment to keep you there, and you can find out what happened on the radio. Just like everyone else.” That was fine with me.
Just as I got to the door, Carmichael said, “And get yourself some new clothes, for Christ’s sake. You look like shit.”
MELANCHOLY BABY
LOOMIS AND Soames were waiting for me in the hallway. I was a bit wobbly on my feet — partially from the riot, Partially from my conversation with Carmichael. After all, it wasn’t every day that a man learned he was a dead man walking.
Soames led the two of us upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms so I could wash up in private. He said he’d bring us up some sandwiches, as well as some of his clothes that I could change into. We were about the same size. I was going to tell him not to bother, but when I finally got a look at myself in the mirror, I kept my mouth shut. My face was smeared with dirt and dried blood — mostly other people’s blood. I felt a certain amount of pride in that. My shirt was torn at the shoulder, as was the left sleeve of my jacket. The front had been ripped open, too, and all the pockets on the outside of my jacket were shredded. Blood had smeared and dried again all over my pants and shoes. My tie was nowhere to be found.
I stripped out of my shirt and undershirt, left them in a pile on the bathroom floor and hung my holster and gun on the back of the bathroom door. I tossed my sap on the dresser and emptied my pockets. It wasn’t much: my apartment key, my Luckies, some loose change and a handkerchief.
And those matchbooks I’d found in Jack’s apartment, and in Chamberlain’s hovel at The Chantilly Club. The ones with the gold VL.
Things had broken so fast with Chamberlain that I’d forgotten to ask him about them. What did VL mean? Based on what Carmichael had just told me, I guess it didn’t matter anymore. I was done for, either way.
I filled the sink with cold water and dunked my head all the way in. The cold shock seeped into my scalp, my bones, cutting the pressure that was building up in my neck and head and dulling the ache in my jaw. The pain in my head made everything roar anew. I pulled my head out of the water and toweled off. The bruise under my jaw was blue, darkening towards black. The bruise on my temple from whatever hit me was shaping up to be just as bad. Both hurt like hell, but I was still too numb from Carmichael’s threats to notice.
I pulled the plug in the sink and watched the red tinged water swirl down the drain. The similarity between the water and my career wasn’t lost on me. I made the water about as hot as I could stand it, and went to work on the blood on my hands.
I realized I’d forgotten Loomis was in the bedroom, sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, watching me clean up just like my daughters used to watch me shave every morning. Remembering them suddenly made me feel better and worse all at the same time. I would’ve given anything to be with them, to talk to them right then, but that couldn’t happen. I wouldn’t want them to see me like that, anyway. I put that out of my mind and focused on washing the blood.
Loomis said, “It doesn’t come off that easy, does it?”
“It’s not supposed to.”
“O’Hara told me about Carmichael sending Hauser to raid the address Chamberlain gave us,” he said. “I’m sorry. It should’ve been you.”
“It should’ve been us, comrade,” I smiled. Maybe some of Chamberlain’s commie bullshit was rubbing off on me.”
“What difference does it make, anyway? Carmichael’s been looking for a way to get rid of me for a while. Now he’s got his chance.”
“I know.” Loomis looked away. “Soames and I overheard everything he said. He’s wrong, you know, and so was I. If we’d waited for the Feds to get involved, they’d still be getting set up by now. Instead, we drew one of the kidnappers into the open and got a solid lead on where Jack might be. And we managed to find out who killed Jessica and why. That means something, Charlie. No matter how this turns out, no matter what Carmichael does to you, I hope you’ll remember that in the long run. I’m glad you did what you did. And, for what it’s worth, I’m glad I did it with you.”
I hadn’t expected him to say any of that, but it was good to hear. “It’s worth a lot, believe me. I just hope I don’t pull you down with me is all. You didn’t want any part of this. You shouldn’t get dragged down with me.”
Then I threw my towel down into the sink, splashing flecks of reddish water onto the mirror. “All this shit over some spoiled punk who was looking to elope, got drunk, and ran his goddamned mouth to the wrong people. Look at where it got him. Look at where it got his sister, and his grandfather, and his parents.”
Look at where it got me, I thought, but didn’t say it. Because Jack Van Dorn didn’t get me into anything. I got into this mess all by myself, a long time ago.
Soames knocked and walked in with a black suit, a shirt and a tie on a hanger in one hand. He had a tray of sandwiches in the other. The look on his face told the whole story.
Loomis said it before I did. “Hauser called, didn’t he?”
Soames nodded slowly as he laid the clothes and the tray on the bed. His eyes were wet around the edges. That cold feeling spread through my gut again.
“What is it, Soames?”
Soames shook his head. “Jack wasn’t there.”
THE PANIC’S ON
THE SCENE at the apartment read: Panic. The place was nothing but a jumped-up tenement on Twenty-Third and Eighth, a three-room apartment that had seen better days twenty years before. The living room was set up a lot like Chamberlain’s hovel at the Chantilly Club.
Three cots and some chairs scattered around a card table. One chair had been knocked over. The others had been pulled away from the table at odd angles. Someone had been in one hell of a rush. The table and floor were littered with beer bottles, poker chips and cards. Four days’ worth of newspapers were scattered all over the place. A cheap radio crackled out bits of garbled music near the window. The few slats that remained in the blinds were yellowed and cracked. The window behind them was caked with dirt. The kitchen was worse. The trash bin was overflowing with takeout bags and food rappers. The sink was filled with dirty dishes and empty bottles of what looked like bootleg whiskey. Several cockroaches sat high up on the wall, fat and happy, waiting for the noise to be over so they could get back to eating.
The sweet stench of it all made the sandwiches I’d eaten on the ride down repeat on me. My headache came back in spades. I grazed the back of my hand along the coffee pot on the stove. Some warmth, but not much. Judging by how hot it was that day, I figured the pot had been warm two hours before. Probably less. The whole scene screamed hole-
up. The mess screamed panic. My years in Vice came in handy. I made a couple of educated guesses.
Guess #1: They’d brought Van Dorn here after getting him drunk. Killing Jessica sent Enzo and his pals into a frenzy.
They heard about the A.P.B. on Chamberlain, but Chamberlain made a pitch: I know the Van Dorn type. I’ll broker a deal for Jack and cut us a good deal. Leave it to me.
Guess #2: Enzo and his pals knew Chamberlain wasn’t as tough as he thought he was. They waited until Chamberlain turned the corner, then moved Jack elsewhere.
Guesses were all well and good. There was only question that counted: Where did they take Jack Van Dorn? Every minute of every hour since four that morning had been nothing but guesses and questions and answers leading to even more questions. I’d thought we were close when we broke Chamberlain. But the trail was cold before the smug bastard even rang the Van Dorn’s doorbell.
I punched the kitchen wall with the side of my hand. We’d been so damned close all along, but never as close as we thought. Now Jack could be anywhere.
Loomis called out to me from the bedroom. “Charlie, you’d better come take a look at this.”
The bedroom was the worst of it. A metal-frame bed with a paper-thin mattress in the corner. No sheets on the bed. No pillow. Just a lot of empty gin bottles scattered around. The washbasin in the corner had been used as a bathroom and it was overflowing. I almost gagged.
Loomis pointed to a man’s shirt balled up in the other corner of the bed. A shirt with a hell of a lot of blood on it. I used a busted chair leg to prod the balled up shirt open. I saw the label, clear as day — Brooks Brothers. Jack Van Dorn’s shirt all right. And Jack Van Dorn’s blood, too. A lot of it. And every one of Chief Carmichael’s threats crowded in on me.
Loomis asked Hauser the question that had been rattling around in my mind as I walked through the place. “The apartment was empty when you got here?”
Hauser nodded. “I had men eyeballing the place the second I heard Chamberlain give up the address. Nobody came in or out the whole time. The icebox is full of beer, so I’d say they were planning to stay here for a while. They probably cleared out once Chamberlain said he was going to try to cut a better deal with the Van Dorns. They knew we’d break him eventually.”
It made sense, but it still didn’t feel right to me. It wasn’t just the bloody shirt, either. Three guys and a drunk don’t just disappear in broad daylight without someone seeing them. “Your men canvass the building already?”
“Started knocking on doors right after we found the place empty. Building is full of hard Micks who hate cops. Even if they saw anything, they’d never tell us.”
I opened Van Dorn’s crumpled shirt further. The front of it was covered in dried blood. A long smear of it was on the right sleeve, from the elbow down to the cuff. But nowhere else. Not on the collar. Not on the other sleeve and not on the back.
Loomis took a closer look at the shirt and grinned. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Probably,” I said.
Hauser moved between us. “What the hell are you two talking about?”
I tossed the shirt back on the bed. “Jack’s probably still alive.”
“Probably,” Loomis agreed.
Hauser wasn’t buying it. “Nice try, ladies, but that shirt says otherwise. That’s a hell of a lot of blood.”
“Someone busted him in the nose,” I said, nodding at the blood trail.
“Could be from the mouth,” Loomis said, “but my money’s on the nose. Both bleed pretty bad, but neither one’s fatal.”
Hauser didn’t look convinced. “How the hell do you know?”
Loomis said: “The blood’s only on the front of the shirt and the right sleeve.”
Hauser still didn’t look convinced. “So?”
“Van Dorn probably sobered up long enough to realize he was being held here against his will,” I explained. “Probably tried to escape, got busted in the nose and bled like a pig.” I pointed at the right sleeve. “Wiped it away with his right arm. See?”
Loomis added, “If they’d cut his throat, there’d be more blood. Same as if they’d shot him, but there’s no holes in the shirt. There’s no blood on the floor, or the mattress, or the calls — and no signs they cleaned any up, either. Given the condition of this place, these boys don’t look like the types who clean up after themselves.”
“Which means there’s a good chance Jack’s still alive,” I added. “Besides, it’s easier to move a man who can walk than lugging a corpse, especially in broad daylight.”
Loomis’ grin turned into a smile. “You’re getting pretty good at this.”
“Fuck you.” I grinned back, even though it hurt my jaw.
Hauser reddened. “Too bad that shirt can’t tell you geniuses where they took him.”
I left the bedroom and took another walk around the apartment. The evidence boys were dusting the beer bottles, the radio, doorknobs and every other surface for prints. They were bound to get usable prints, but that would take some time. Like I’d said all along: Time was the one thing Jack Van Dorn didn’t have. Finding that bloody shirt proved it. The apartment was empty, but it wasn’t like we were empty handed. Hell, the room itself was a clue.
The condition of the room told me that Chamberlain had been the brains of the outfit. He’d cleaned up any and all evidence in the room at The Chauncey Arms after Enzo killed Jessica. Chamberlain might’ve been a weasel, but he was no dummy. He’d never would’ve left this much evidence lying around. Chamberlain had said they’d kept Van Dorn quiet by keeping him drunk. Enzo and the others had probably done a good job of keeping Jack that way, too, but somewhere along the way, they’d hit him. And that changed things.
Before, he’d just been a drunken payday, floating along on a sea of booze. If they had to hit him, that meant they’d had to subdue him. Now that Jack realized what was going on, he was a prisoner. That changed everything. As I watched the crime scene boys do their work, I tried putting myself in Enzo’s shoes.
Enzo and his boys were in a tough spot. We had Chamberlain in custody and they figured he’d spill everything eventually. Smart boy. Carmichael’s men would get him to talk. They’d probably gotten him to confess to shooting Lincoln by now — Booth was just a patsy. Enzo and his men were on the run, with every cop in the city looking for them.
With Chamberlain’s brains behind bars, all Enzo had was muscle. Muscle was what had gotten them into trouble in the first place; it wouldn’t be enough to keep Jack alive, much less negotiate for more money. This Enzo character probably knew that, but what could he do? In situations like these, muscle just made matters worse. Unless we made their muscle work for us.
I turned to Hauser, “Do you know if Carmichael’s boys got anything out of Chamberlain yet?”
“I just got off the phone with them before you got here.” Hauser flipped open his notebook. “Chamberlain says taking Jack was his idea, but this Enzo character handled all of the particulars — the room at The Chauncey Arms where Jessica was killed, this palace here, the works.”
Loomis rubbed his jaw. “Chamberlain give them anything on this Enzo he keeps talking about?”
Hauser went back to his notebook. “Said they’ve known each other for just a few months at The Chantilly Club, and he’s always called himself Enzo. No last name.”
I knew Hauser never gave out with more than what you asked him. “What about a description?”
Hauser read from his notebook. “Around six feet tall, mid-thirties, more or less. Dark complexion, hard looking. No scars or any distinguishable marks.”
“Christ,” Loomis said. “Could be anybody.”
“Sounds like my wife,” I said. “What else does Chamberlain know about Enzo?”
“Said Enzo sometimes does muscle jobs for Danny Stiles at…”
“Wait.” There was that name again. “Chamberlain said Enzo worked for Danny Stiles?”
“Yeah,” Hauser said. “Chamberlain said
Enzo worked at some of his gambling joints around town. I guess that was before Sally Balls put Stiles on the lam. Anyway, Enzo’s friends were drifters called…” Hauser kept talking, but I couldn’t hear him.
Blood began roaring in my ears. Suddenly, all of the whispers had been drifting around my head since this whole mess started back at The Chauncey Arms started getting louder. Whispers that had been the questions I’d been pawing at all day. Questions that Hauser had just answered for me.
Question #1: Out of all the dives in this town, why bring Jessica Van Dorn to The Chauncey Arms?
Answer #1: Chamberlain said Enzo had picked it.
Question #2: Out of all the neighborhoods they could’ve holed up with Jack, why this one?
Answer #2: Chamberlain said Enzo picked it. I had a new question: With all the dumps in this neighborhood — hell, of all the dumps on this block — Enzo picked this apartment on the fourth floor of this building.
Why?
I asked Hauser: “Your boys find out who was renting this place?”
Hauser shook his head. “The maintenance guy said the landlord sometimes lets friends flop here from time to time but tells him to keep his nose out of it.”
My gut tightened. Same set-up as The Chauncey Arms. Same set-up as Jack Van Dorn’s apartment. No one to see them come or go by order of the landlord. Could be a coincidence. But I’d been a cop too long to believe in coincidences. “Who’s the landlord?”
“Maintenance guy gave us a phone number, but we called it and no answer,” Hauser said. “It traces to an office across town leased by an outfit called Smith Brothers Holdings. Original, ain’t it? We...”
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