Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  “Why aren’t you in jail?”

  “I escaped,” I said. “Where are we having lunch?”

  “We aren’t. You probably look like you’ve been hung out to dry and smell worse. Besides, I work.”

  “You do. And I occasionally help. Now I need help—info. I’ll buy you clams at Sym’s.”

  “All the way out there?”

  “I recall you agreed with me about Sym’s clams. I’ll change my shirt.”

  “You do know your clams.” He made some noises that might have been his brain working but were probably just his lips flapping around an annoyed sigh. “I can get away for about an hour, but it has to be now.”

  That suited me perfectly, and I told him so. We rang off, and I dashed outside to jump on a passing streetcar. It carried me to the top of the hill, and I started down on foot, getting about half way before lucking into an empty hack. That brought me to the Rooker building, and the elevator took me the rest of the way. Getting out on the third floor and turning right to head down the hall to my office, I saw that someone was fiddling with my doorknob, or at least he had been. He’d apparently looked up when the elevator binged. He didn’t think to remove his hand from the knob until after we’d made eye contact at which point he smiled, putting both hands into his pockets.

  I sort of recognized him, but not really. He looked like Tyrone Power had before the war, and that’s not the sort of comparison I am apt to make lightly. Tall and slender, draped in a suit that someone had taken care fitting and finishing, he wore a hat set back to show off the black hair that swung down across his forehead. His face had all the right parts arranged in just the right way, nothing too big or too small, skinned in a light olive shade that made you notice his dark eyebrows, which in turn set off his dark eyes. His lips weren’t really red, or even pink, but were perfect at showing off his white teeth. You got the impression he spent some time at the mirror working to get that smile just right. Basically, he was that sort of guy who is too pretty and knows it. The sort your knuckles just itch to plug.

  “Why, it’s the man himself,” he told me in a firm tenor.

  I eyed him skeptically as I approached. “Is it?”

  “Declan Colette, yes?”

  I neither confirmed nor denied it. I reached the door, and he stepped back to let me use my key. That my key fit the lock probably went some way toward answering his question.

  “You don’t remember me,” he said, following me into the foyer, past the someday-receptionist’s desk into my office. “We worked together on that bank notes caper last year. Joe. Joe Lovejoy. I’m with Cobb.”

  By the time he’d said all that, I was around my desk and seated in my chair. I didn’t get up to take the hand he extended to me, but after a momentary hesitation, I did shake it. As soon as he’d mentioned the bank job, I remembered him fine. Half as smart as he thought and twice as smooth. But he did work full time for Walter Cobb. As I recollect, the old man once told me he kept Lovejoy around because the ladies liked him. I didn’t doubt it. But my knuckles were still itching, and clasping hands with the snake didn’t help.

  He put his hands back in his pockets and looked around at the window and the filing cabinet, at the couch against the wall and the two client chairs facing my desk. But he didn’t sit. “This is a nice office. Cozy.” He offered me another askew glance, angling his head slightly to give his eyes a coy slant. “You do remember me, don’t you?”

  “Sure. Sure I do, Joe. How you been?”

  “Great! And you?” He was energized, which made me remember how tired I was. I watched him pace a few steps to the left and back another four steps to the right. He continued to admire the decor. “Must be swell being your own boss. Not that Cobb is a bad guy, no! He’s always done all right by me. You know, he thinks well of you, too. Says you have potential.”

  That made my hand twitch, and I had no choice but to make a fist. I can’t say he noticed. He was eyeing me but trying to be sly about it, or rather playing at being sly in such a way as to ensure that I knew exactly what he was doing. I cleared my throat and told him, “Is there something I can do for you? Did Cobb need me to call him? I’m a bit busy at the moment. In fact, I just came in to change my shirt.”

  “Carry on. This is just a friendly visit, professional courtesy. Walter sent me, but informally, you know? He likes you. Did I tell you he told me he thinks you have potential?”

  I got back up because it would be easier to knock him down that way. Not that it would have been much of a chore lying on my back. Admittedly, he probably fought dirty and maybe even kept assorted tools tucked away, but the mood I was in, I wouldn’t have felt anything less than a sap over the head. Not that I was planning on knocking him down. Professional courtesy, you know. It goes both ways. I just went over to the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and got a new shirt.

  “You mentioned it,” I said in answer to his question.

  He lodged his fanny on the edge of my desk, his feet set wide. His hands were still in his pockets. “Well, we all heard about the police taking you in this morning. We heard that girl who got killed, she had arranged to meet you. We also heard that Miss Lana O’Malley and her brother, Morgan O’Malley, came here to the office.” He had been watching me take off my tie and shirt, but at that point decided the toe of his shoe was more interesting. “That surprised us. You see, I’ve been working for the O’Malleys nearly three weeks. I mean, Cobb and I have. They hired us to look into their father’s death. You don’t mind if I smoke?”

  I didn’t answer because it wasn’t really a question. He had his long, brown ridiculously expensive cigarette out of its silver case and nearly to his lips. He flicked a matching silver lighter and started puffing. When he looked back up he said, “God, you’re a gorilla.”

  I had taken off my undershirt and was using it to wipe under my arms. I don’t know what exactly prompted his remark. There’s some hair on my chest, I suppose, and I am not ashamed of my physique, which is broad at the shoulders and less so at the waist. But my arms aren’t especially long. My knuckles rarely drag the floor. Maybe it was just an involuntary reaction to my muscles; I was downright burly compared to him. Admittedly my phiz wasn’t in the same ballpark. If he was a young Tyrone Power, I’m James Cagney, say in City for Conquest, only after his ill-fated fight with the champ.

  I didn’t have a spare undershirt at the office, so I donned the clean shirt over my skin. He watched me because, you know, animals in their habitat can be fascinating.

  “You can imagine we were surprised,” he was saying. “And now, of course, we’ll be taking on this new business. Well, along with the police. You do understand?”

  “Professional courtesy.” I moved back to the chair behind my desk, carrying my tie in my hand. I figured he was going to talk, and I couldn’t do much about it short of risking a charge for assault, but I didn’t have to listen. I dialed my service, then juggled the telephone receiver as I looped the tie back around my neck. “Declan Colette, messages.”

  The operator told me, “I hope you’re sitting down, Mr. Colette.” I am not fudging this. Those were her words.

  Meanwhile, Lovejoy went on. “Also, you understand, we’re interested in asking you a few questions. I mean, I am, here and now. Or if you’re busy, we could meet for a drink after.”

  I had my pad and pen ready. “Shoot,” I told the phone.

  I had nine messages, and the operator did absolutely nothing to conceal her incredulity. Three were from Gig Barton, asking me to call, so I skipped those. Two were from Sam Weingarten, who wrote for the Chronicle, but we were not friendly, and I skipped those too. Two more were from Walter Cobb, the first asking me to call and the second reiterating that request and adding that it was important. Since his heartthrob was standing right there in front of my desk, I skipped again.

  I finally got to use the pen for Mr. Morgan O’Malley, Finchley-five, seven-one-four-three. The call itself was not so earth-shattering a development considering, but
the time at which the message had been taken was indeed noteworthy: ten o’clock p.m., the previous evening. Indeed.

  The last message was from Mrs. Lawrence O’Malley, at a number I recognized as one I’d written down the day before.

  “So, I guess things are looking up.” That was the operator, sounding as if something like a smile might be playing on her lips.

  I thought a crack was in order. I almost demanded her name, planning to feign some outrage and telling her to connect me to her supervisor. But she seemed quite smart enough to mistake it as a clever ploy to get her lined up, and I like to avoid misunderstandings. “I’ll let you know,” I told her, hanging up.

  When I turned my attention back to Lovejoy, I discovered he had ended his soliloquy and was craning his neck to see what I’d scribbled on my pad. Good luck with that, I thought. I could barely read it myself right side up. I tore off the top sheet and crammed it in my pocket. Rising, I said, “You’re Joe Lovejoy!”

  It startled him. His handsome brow dipped over his flashing eyes. That was enough to tell me I was onto a tack. “You aren’t the same Joe who told Miss O’Malley I’d be worse than useless? No, it couldn’t be. Must have been another Joe. Professional courtesy, and all that.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Skip it,” I said, waving my hand. “This was just a friendly visit. Informal.”

  He backed up a step as I came around the end of my desk, which did my heart a world of good. He may have been too arrogant to be intimidated, but that didn’t mean he had to be incautious. You never know what a gorilla might do. “So, we understand each other?”

  I gestured him toward the door. “Sure. But let’s agree that you use the elevator, and I’ll take the stairs. Professional courtesy.”

  He shook his head, preceding me into the hall. “Don’t play it that way, Colette.” He made it an appeal, addressing my back as I locked up. “I was there first. It’s mine.”

  “Go then, my boy. Run with it. But I didn’t invite the O’Malleys down here yesterday. They came on their own. Three weeks after hiring you.”

  He showed me his hands as he backed away down the hall. “You’ve always been a jackass. I was just trying to be professional.”

  I didn’t watch him go. The stairs were in the opposite direction, I had nothing more to say, and I was in real danger of being late for my lunch date.

  Chapter Five

  In addition to clams, Syms has a variety of great Cajun cooking. And, growing up in my grandmother’s house, I know from Cajun food. It also boasts the huge advantage of being located just a few blocks from my office and being owned by a man who will be eternally grateful for some help I provided him back when I first came to the city.

  Gig, who prided himself on his palate, had never been before I took him there. That was partly because it’s a Negro establishment in a predominantly Negro neighborhood, and Gig is so white, he practically glows. But it’s also because the place is a secret treasure, and only the best people know about it.

  I beat Gig there and managed to score my usual table at the back. Gina, the hostess, who might live in the place for all I know, since I’ve yet to visit and not see her, brought me a Manhattan in a highball glass. “You don’t look so good.”

  “Is this some new scheme to score a bigger tip? I question the merits.”

  She has the loveliest black skin, just a few shades lighter than my grandmother, and huge almond eyes that must take ten minutes to paint each morning. Her amber irises reflect the subdued lighting of the room beautifully. “You question everything, Dec. It’s the only reason I don’t marry you.”

  “Is that the reason?”

  She laughed, a deep, throaty, barely-audible baritone that she’s somehow learned to make resonate in a man’s lower spine. “Well, one of them. I’m not quite sure I approve of your line of work. Look at you. Did you sleep last night?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Which just goes to show you.” I took a sip of my beverage and glanced once up and down her long form. “You look well.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “And the reason I don’t marry you. I’d be down here every night hunched in the corner in a jealous rage.”

  She looked disappointed. “You wouldn’t make me give up work? Now I have two reasons.”

  “Drats. Foiled by my own wit.” I took another drink. “My only excuse is I’m bushed. I slept last night but not much. Did I remember to order clams when I asked for this drink?”

  “You did. You’re not completely done for.” She nodded at my half-empty glass. “You may want to slow down on that until your friend gets here.”

  I hoisted the glass to my lips and swallowed a healthy sample. “I may need to inform Sym of the way you’re trying to dissuade patrons from spending money.” I could see she wasn’t amused, however, so I added, “Don’t bring me another until you bring his.”

  I didn’t have to wait long. She was halfway to the front when the street doors opened, and a tall blond fellow stepped in. He stood blinking at the darkness while Gina greeted him. She pointed back at me, then went to the bar as Gig Barton made his way toward me.

  He dropped a manila folder down next to my drink. “Happy Christmas.”

  “Merry New Year. What’s this?”

  “Everything I could smuggle out under my jacket.” He settled into his chair. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of spreading such a vicious lie.” I opened the folder and nearly fell out of my chair. It was packed with photos and draft prints of articles, copies of morgue biographies and even some handwritten notes. “Jesus, Gig, I’m flabbergasted.”

  “Yeah, well, I also brought this.” He tugged a notepad out of his inside breast pocket and slapped it down on the table. “So understand I expect a fair exchange. Say everything you’ve got now plus first crack at anything you dig up. Regarding Ramona Wyman, of course. What exactly is your involvement in this thing? Did you meet this girl or only converse on the telephone? Is it true you met with Lawrence O’Malley’s kids yesterday?”

  “How’s Betsy?”

  “She doesn’t like you, and she wouldn’t approve of our having lunch. Try to stay focused. I’ve only got an hour. Maybe two if you drink enough of those so that you can’t control your tongue.” He indicated my empty glass.

  I looked up and around for Gina and saw her already on her way with a tray. Sadly, only one glass was riding it, and its contents looked too clear to be a Manhattan. Probably it was Gig’s gin fizz. That’s what he likes. Nobody’s perfect. I told him, referring to Betsy, “I thought you said she didn’t trust me. I had no idea her opinion crossed the board. Now my feelings are all hurt.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to soldier through the pain.”

  “Can I at least take a look at this first?” Gina had arrived, so I said, “Maybe taste your drink. You remember Gina. Gina, Gig.”

  They acknowledged they knew one another as she deposited his drink, inquired after my thoughts on a second, and departed to get it. Gig tasted his gin fizz, wiped his lips, and went straight back to work.

  “First thing this morning, I was told you were under arrest. What happened with that?”

  “That was merely Oscar Dent trying to show he still has teeth. Nothing was filed, and by the time I got into the ADA, they’d bought me coffee and donuts and considered me a friend of the force. Who’s George Kelly?” I was glancing over the bios, and I didn’t recognize that name.

  “Another cousin. Lawrence O’Malley’s sister’s kid. Well, kid no more. He’s our age. The only one of the bunch not loony, I gather. War hero, North African variety. Morocco maybe? Member of the bar. Patrician’s right hand. Did surprisingly well in the old man’s will. In fact, if there had been any question about O’Malley’s death, Kelly would have topped my list of likelies.”

  “If? Surely this new murder makes it better than even that O’Malley didn’t go without help.”

  “If so, y
ou’ll need to explain the how to me. Zack Nolan had the story for three weeks and came up with nothing. I admit Nolan’s not me, but he’s at least half as good and would have dug up something provided there was something to dig up.” A waiter deposited a steaming bowl of clams in the center of the table. Gig took up the large serving spoon and shoveled a good portion onto his plate. “No sir, O’Malley died of a heart attack, plain and simple. The cops brought in three different experts to be sure.” He popped a clam into his mouth. “You aren’t planning to help me with these?”

  “Sure. I’m just trying to get through this.” I flipped another page, scanning a short article published the day after O’Malley’s death. “You said you only had an hour.”

  “Nuts. Have it to me by the end of business today. I mean it. Tony’d have my hide if that went missing. And, like I said, I expect some quid for the pro quo. You can start by telling me why it was you were meeting with Ramona Wyman.”

  “Sadly, I can’t. I don’t know why. It was about the only thing she refused to tell me.”

  “Okay, then. Why did the O’Malley kids come to see you?”

  “Sad again. Nothing you’d be interested in. Unrelated.”

  “Ha!” It wasn’t so much a laugh as a scoff. “Now you’re just trying to goad me. They were peddling the notion their father had been murdered. You weren’t the first to hear about it. They’d been to the police and a few lawyers. You weren’t even their first private dick.”

  I let him see that I was hurt. “Then why ask?”

  “To show how much better a friend I am than you. Did you buy into their fable?”

  “I never got the chance. Miss O’Malley decided she didn’t like my haircut and called the whole thing off.” I helped myself to some clams, spooning them on my plate and splashing a generous portion of the sauce atop them. I’d already closed the manila folder and shoved it aside for later, when I was alone. “Tell me about those kids.”