A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  The girl said shrilly, “They aren’t here!”

  “You can put your clothes on, too,” I told Rooney. “If you have another gun hidden somewhere, do me a favor. Make a play for it.”

  His hooded eyes flared. “Who the hell are you?”

  “The private cop you didn’t kill the other night.”

  He lowered his gaze. “Oh.”

  The girl was sitting on the bed, weeping; body heaving.

  “Take it easy on her, will you?” he said, zipping his fly. “She’s just a kid.”

  I was opening a window to ease the stench of his vomit.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll say kaddish for her.”

  I handcuffed the lovebirds to the bed and called the local law; they in turn called the state prosecutor’s office in Chicago, and Sergeants Pribyl and Gray made the long drive up the next day to pick up the pair.

  It seemed the two cops had already caught Henry Berry—a tipster gave them the West Chicago Avenue address of a second-floor room he was holed up in.

  I admitted to Pribyl that I’d been wrong about Tubbo tipping off Rooney and the rest about the raid.

  “I figure Rooney lammed out of sheer panic,” I said, “the morning after the murder.”

  Pribyl saw it the same way.

  The following March, Pribyl arrested Herbert Arnold running a Northside handbill-distributing agency.

  Rooney, Berry, and Rosalie Rizzo were all convicted of murder; the two men got life, and the girl twenty years. Arnold hadn’t been part of the kill-happy joyride that took Stanley Gross’s young life, and got only one to five for conspiracy and extortion.

  None of it brought Stanley Gross back, nor did my putting on a beanie and sitting with the Gross family, suffering through a couple of stints at a storefront synagogue on Roosevelt Road.

  But it did get Barney off my ass.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: While Nathan Heller is a fictional character, this story is based on a real case—names have not been changed, and the events are fundamentally true; source material included an article by John J. McPhaul and information provided by my research associate, George Hagenauer, whom I thank for his insights and suggestions.

  BENJAMIN M. SCHUTZ

  “Mary, Mary, Shut The Door” is one of the most stunning short stories ever written in the private eye genre. Benjamin M. Schutz (1949– ) won both the Edgar and the Shamus for it. In larger perspective, it is but one part of his fine Leo Haggerty saga, one of the truly underappreciated bodies of work in today’s private eye field.

  Schutz hasn’t published much of late, busy, one assumes, with his work as a clinical psychologist specializing in child custody and child sexual abuse cases. One hopes to see another novel from him soon.

  Lost and Found

  Acknowledgments:

  I’d like to thank the following people for the gracious donation of their expertise. Any errors are entirely my responsibility. Chanda Kinsey, defense attorney; Johnny Ringo of Carefree Jeep Tours; Paula Edgin, JoAnne Reiss and Arllys Filmer-Ennett, concierges at The Boulders; Sherry Mehalic of Travel Partners; and Rhoda K. Schutz.

  “So, how would you like another shot at Derek Marshall?”

  Inside, you learned to speak once and listen twice. I listened.

  “Not interested?”

  “Not saying. What does a ‘second shot’ mean?”

  “He’s come out of hiding. He left San Francisco, drove to San Diego and jumped on a cruise ship to Mexico. He has a woman with him.”

  “You think he plans to kill her?”

  “I don’t know. That’s one of the things I want you to find out.”

  I looked at the old man. I hadn’t seen Enzo Scolari in six, maybe seven years. Time had leached a lot of life out of him. He was frail and bony. Waiting for my reply, he massaged the swollen arthritic knuckles of his hands. His wispy, white eyebrows were now as unruly as smoke.

  Six years ago he had hired me to prevent his niece’s marriage to Derek Marshall. I wasn’t able to do that. She married Marshall, and in short order he murdered her and became a millionaire. For two years after that I kept tabs on him, hoping that he’d step wrong and I’d be there to drop a net over him. It didn’t happen.

  “Why me?”

  “I can’t think of anyone better qualified, Mr. Haggerty. You know Marshall. You know how he works. You have a personal stake in this, or at least you did. And you’re available. You can follow him wherever he goes.”

  “Marshall knows me, too. I can’t get near him. He’ll make me and that’s the end of that.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Haggerty. I knew you then and I would never recognize you now. You’ve changed quite a bit. How much weight have you put on?”

  I shrugged. “Thirty-six pounds.”

  “It looks good on you. All muscle. How did you do that? I hear the food is not fit for animals.”

  “I lifted weights four hours a day, seven days a week. That and good genes. I can turn shit into muscle.”

  “That seems to be the case. With your shaved head and goatee, sunglasses and a hat, he’ll never recognize you.”

  I let it pass. “I lost my license. I can’t carry a gun. I have no contacts anymore. I don’t know how I could be of any use to you.”

  Scolari waved my words away with a swat of his bony hand. “You didn’t get stupid, did you? You were a bright man. I’m betting you still are. You don’t need a license or a gun, just your wits. As for contacts, I know all you’ll ever need to about Derek Marshall. I maintained my own surveillance on Mr. Marshall after he left Virginia.”

  Scolari touched the switch on his wheelchair, spun towards the desk and poured himself a glass of water. His hand shook so badly that he had to stop two inches from his mouth and let his head close the distance. He drained the glass and put it on the desk.

  Scolari turned back to me.

  “What was prison like, Mr. Haggerty?”

  “Just like any gated community, Mr. Scolari. Too many rules.”

  “How does it feel to be back in the world?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m just out. I’m not back.”

  “Yes, well let me tell you about Derek Marshall. After he settled in San Francisco, I had our local office keep track of all the women he dated. After the first date, we sent them a press kit, so to speak. All the clippings about Gina’s death, the inquest, the unanswered questions. Most of them never went out with him again. There were a few that we could not dissuade. However, Derek Marshall spent many, many nights alone. I also tried to recover the money he got when Gina died. I was not quite as successful there. I have many business contacts all over the country. Those that I could influence in San Francisco made it hard for him to get loans, or closed mutual funds to him. I ruined a couple of his investments; cost him and some other people quite a bit of money. All of this forced Mr. Marshall into a very low profile lifestyle. He wasn’t enjoying the spoils of his crime.

  “I’m worried about this trip to Mexico. It’s his first attempt to shake my surveillance. I want to know what he’s up to. Is he planning to disappear? Who is the woman with him? Is she an accomplice to his plans? Is she in danger from him? That’s where you come in, Mr. Haggerty. As I said, you know Derek, how he thinks. You have no ties to this area anymore, am I correct?”

  I just listened.

  “I kept track of you, too. You have no license, no job, and no career. No family. Your friends in the police department can’t help you because you’re a felon. Same with your friends at other agencies. No one can use you. You have no home, no money. Your lawyer got all that.

  “I, however, have a plane ticket for you, a car waiting at the airport in Tucson, and a cabin on the ship where he’s staying. Right now they are wet-docked at Puerto Penasco for repairs. They’ll be there for three days. I also have a company credit card for you. While you’re on the job, all your living expenses will be covered.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Find out what he’s up to. I
don’t want to lose him. That’s the first thing. Find out who the girl is. If she’s in danger, warn her off. I don’t want anyone else to go through what I’ve gone through.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Report to me as soon as you find out anything. I don’t care what time it is. I sleep badly when I sleep at all. That’s your ‘second shot.’ Are you interested?”

  Scolari’s offer beat everything else I had going. I was too old to be starting over from scratch.

  “When’s the next plane out?”

  In the air over Tucson, I thought about my talk with old man Scolari. He was awfully eager to get me out here with Marshall. Why? Maybe he blamed me for Gina’s death. Maybe he’d decided to have us both killed? No. I went to prison two years after Derek left. He never tried it then and he had plenty of time. Maybe he wants to set me up for Derek’s death, do it that way. Why now? He can maneuver me into position a lot easier than before. Five years ago a lot more people would have cared about what happened to me, not now. Maybe he was tired of waiting and decided to make something happen. How sick was he?

  Maybe what I should do is milk this for all it’s worth. File dummy reports, stay away from Marshall in case it’s a frame and see how long I can ride this until he catches on. They say living well is the best revenge. Besides, what’s the worst that he could do, fire me? Why am I not scared?

  We began to descend over Tucson. I looked out the window at the ground rushing up at us. Most crashes occur on takeoffs and landings. I watched all the way down. We bounced once on the runway, then settled down and began to slow.

  Scolari had asked me how it felt to be back. I really didn’t know. I remember thinking about Humpty Dumpty when I was sentenced. How some men shattered when they hit bottom, while others armored themselves all the way down and they didn’t feel a thing. Not then, not ever.

  My rental car was in a lot across the street from the airport. I threw my bag in the passenger seat, got in and turned on the air conditioner. The airport information board said it was 110 degrees today. The rental agent had given me a courtesy map of the area. I unfolded it and decided on a route. I pulled out of the lot and entered the freeway traffic that ran by the airport.

  I drove south out of America into Mexico. My last case had started in Mexico. It ended in the Maryland State Penitentiary Maximum Security Facility at Jessup. There was only one thing I knew for certain. I was not going into a Mexican prison.

  I crossed the border at Nogales and headed towards Hermosillo. Halfway there I turned west towards Mexicali, then south again to the Gulf of California.

  God must have had only a few crayons left in his box when he got to the desert. Everything was one shade of brown or another. Scraggly plants sprouted up on the hills that flanked the road. Each group had its own shepherd; a tall cactus watching over it. Some were as straight and narrow as Giacometti’s men. Others had arms: some up; some down; some both, signalling each other like giant green semaphores.

  An hour or so later I saw the sign for the docks, pulled off the road and stopped at the guard’s station. Razor wire ringed the area.

  “Name, sir?”

  “Haggerty, Leo Haggerty.”

  “Yes sir. You are registered on the Calypso Moonbeam. Drive straight ahead to the parking lot. Check in with security at the gangway.”

  I surrendered my passport, got my security pass, room key, and directions to my cabin. It was clean. It was bigger than I was used to, it was all mine, and I had the key to the door.

  I dropped my bag on the floor and lay down on the bed. I took off my sunglasses and stared at the ceiling fan. Its blades seemed to move as slowly as the hands of a prison clock. It wasn’t long before I was asleep.

  I awoke lying on my back and looked at my watch. It was after four o’clock. I checked the ship’s map and found the lounge. I left the room and went there.

  I sat in a soft chair and ordered a gin and tonic from the waitress. My seat allowed me to watch the entrance to the bar and the dining room. At the very least, I ought to see what Derek looked like these days. No use letting him surprise me. I sipped my drink and watched the people come and go. It was almost eight when Marshall showed up. The last seven years had not hurt him any. He’d put on a few pounds and erased his jaw-line along the way. His hair was still fine and brown, but he parted it on the left now. The glasses were gone, so I guessed he wore contacts.

  He had his arm around a tall blonde, whose pale blue eyes and bright smile stood out against her tan face like turquoise and ivory in the sandy desert. Derek laughed at something the maitre d’ said, squeezed his friend to him and kissed her ear. I took a long slow pull on my drink and thought of Gina Dalesandro. I could still see her wiping tears off her cheek on her wedding day and asking me, “What’s so wrong with me? Can you tell me that?”

  I whispered what I hadn’t said then. “Nothing, Gina, not one single thing. I’m sorry I’ve darkened your day. I’m sorry I didn’t do better.” I hadn’t been able to save her back then and I’d tried my best. This grinning bastard had murdered her and gotten rich doing it. I raised that drink to Gina’s memory and asked her to “wish me better luck this time.” I raised the rest to forget.

  I nursed a port until Marshall and the girl were done eating and then followed them out of the dining room. They walked back to the cabins and entered room 116, a deck below me.

  Still haunted by Gina Dalesandro, I went back to my room and called Scolari. It was 1:30 a.m. back east, and, good as his word, he picked up on the second ring.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Scolari, this is Leo Haggerty. I’ve located Derek Marshall. I saw him at dinner this evening. He has a woman with him. A blonde, tall and very tanned. Do you know anything about her?”

  “No, we’re still working on it. What else have you found out?”

  “Not much. I’ll follow him tomorrow, see if I can get a line on what he’s doing here. If I have to, I’ll try to get closer to the woman, see if she’s in any danger and warn her off.”

  “Careful, Mr. Haggerty. I don’t want Marshall spooked. He hasn’t recognized you, I presume?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll try to find out who she is and if she’s in any danger.”

  “Call me here anytime with any information you get. Especially on the girl.”

  “Of course, Mr. Haggerty. You’ll be the first to know. Goodnight.”

  I hadn’t lifted or run today, so I did seven hundred sit-ups as penance, showered and lay naked on the cool, clean sheets of the bed. I listened hard into the darkness. No one was crying, or cursing. No one was praying or screaming. No one was begging for the mercy that never came. In the middle of the night, I got up and left my room, just because I could.

  I awoke around seven, slipped into a T-shirt, shorts and running shoes, and trotted down the gangway. I showed the security guy my pass and headed for the guard’s station. I passed him and turned right down the road and ran off into the desert. I came back an hour later.

  I trudged back up the gangway. At the top, a woman was putting up a notice on the bulletin board. I stopped to read it.

  She looked at me. “How far did you go?”

  I shrugged. “Six miles.”

  “You take any water with you?”

  “Nah, it wasn’t that far.”

  “Provided you don’t turn an ankle, step on a rattler, and you stay on the road. But if things go wrong, you’ll need that water because you’re sweating quite a bit. Heatstroke and dehydration can drop anyone. You ever been out in the desert before?”

  “No, I haven’t. Maybe my ignorance has led to disrespect.”

  “Why don’t you come on my hike this morning.” She tapped the notice. “You’ll learn more about the desert than you ever wanted to know.”

  Her chestnut hair was pulled back under a beige baseball cap and flowed out the back, thick and smooth as a thoroughbred’s well-curried tail. Silvered sunglasses shielded her eyes like a beetle’s
shiny shell. I found that strangely reassuring.

  “When is it?”

  “Nine.”

  “Okay,” I said, and walked away. I went into my room, stripped down and took a shower, ending it with the icy needle spray I knew so well was only one mistake away.

  I had a light breakfast, then went outside to find my guide. She was standing out by the notice board alternately staring at her clipboard and looking all around to see who was missing. I’d once heard a camp counselor call it “urchin searchin.”

  I pulled up in front of her.

  “Looks like you’re it.”

  “Hike still on?”

  “Sure. Here, take this.” She gave me a water bottle on a belt. I saw she had one on her hip, so I strapped mine on.

  “We may as well start with the rules of the desert. They’re real simple. This is God’s country, not man’s. We’re not welcome here. It’s not user friendly. If you don’t respect that, it will kill you. There are three absolutes: Never travel without water; never go out in the desert alone; always tell someone where you are going. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “You ought to wear a hat. That shiny scalp of yours is a solar collector.”

  “I’ll get one after the hike.”

  “Here, put this on your head, like a do-rag.” She handed me a bandanna from her back pocket. “You look like you’re in pretty good shape.

  Why don’t we go out to those mountains over there.” She pointed into the distance. “It’s probably a couple of hours out. We can see a number of things on the way.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She held out her hand. “My name’s Kiki. Kiki Davenport.”

  “Leo Haggerty.” I shook it, and then tied the bandanna around my head.

  “Where are you from?” she asked and turned to lead the way. She had on a small fanny pack.

  “Back east.”

  We left the road and walked out into the desert. After about twenty minutes she stopped by a twisted tree decorated with a fuzzy necklace.