Welcome To Central City

by Adam C Mitchell

  137 Rosenberg Drive.

  West Pine

  Coast City

  U.S

  SEPTEMBER 9. 1948

  Dear Mr. Lonely Traveller,

  I have read your ad in the Four Tee’s Golf Club newsletter, more times than I can count. Each time smiling just a little bit more. Like you Mr. Lonely Traveller, I am more than just lonely. I feel lost. So please, I beg you don’t think I’m desperate in writing to you because of it, a man I have never met in the flesh. In some small way I hope to bridge the divide between loneliness and company with a pen pal of mature means. Which I know will be my compass on this lonesome map of life, and my light to a new, more fulfilled life.

  I won’t lie, I am more than a little younger than you, being 22 years young and a brat if you ask my farther. But I know in my heart that age is just a number, and age comes with experiences lived, and not candles on a cake. Do you agree, I hope you do? I don’t have anything in common with boys, and mostly the ones I’m constantly being pawned off to, from my daddy’s kingdom on the dreaded golf course. There’re all too small minded and spoiled for my taste. And all the other men in my small pocket of faux high society, hell are over 50 and married. But I do long for a cultured man, one of mature means and tastes. A man that can hold a real conversation and not rely on parlour tricks to keep a lady’s attention. But like I said, I’m not forward. Not really. I’m just real lonely in this place where time goes to die, named West Pine Liberty City.I saw your face in that little black and white picture, thinking it was the cutest little thing I’d seen in a long time, but please don’t see that as an insult. I saw a real man of substance behind those eyes, too.

  Oh’ my! What must you think of me? You must think I’m a tad too forward, but really I’m far from it. It’s my nature I guess. Mother says it’s my best and worst quality at times. I guess she knows best and I have to admit it’s easier to be forward than dishonest. Dishonesty nauseates me, so I really had to be honest and tell you what I thought and felt about your picture and advertisement. And why I had to pick you out of all the men in that provincial little newsletter to write to. I don’t make a habit of writing to men out of the blue. Honest, I don’t. I’m not like my cousin who has a string of men all across America. But we’re both members of the lonely hearts club, and that makes a difference, doesn’t it?

  I mean it’s just like writing to a stranger isn’t it?

  Your friend {?}

  Jess Bennett

  P.S. It must be awfully exciting being the retired owner of a big brewery. I’m just dying to hear all about you, my friend. How you had all the people working for you, and seas of salesman selling for you on the open road. You know what? I’m going to go and purchase a bottle of your beer for my supper tonight. I can’t wait.

  They were rich and passed it. This was their Aladdin’s cave, and he was going to find more than just a magic lamp. They didn’t deserve their money. Most of the rich snobs in this city didn’t deserve it, and Ruddy could imagine like most snobs, the Stevenson’s made their money breaking the backs of the great unwashed of the city. People like him, people from the Tannery’s.

  These two, though, liked anything large expensive, and it had to sparkle and they made sure they wore a lot of it. Sparkles like that came at a price, normally drugs of one sort or another. He’d heard whispers that they had a rare but extensive collection of Russian Fabergé eggs. Ruddy knew they would fetch a tidy sum. Especially if he ignored the drugs that were more than likely on the premises if the rumours were true that Mr. Stevenson was in bed with Mob boss, Renetti. Yes, he could flog them even if his fence Tony croaked around the same time he got a lead plug in his liver. However, despite Tony being gone, he was sure he would be able to sell them on. On top of all that, this particular old couple liked their privacy. Which, Ruddy hoped, meant they lived alone, apart from what he hoped was a skeleton staff. Either way, he knew they only came in on a Tuesday at Two O’clock, week in and week out. There was no one else other than a lone butler, who was the only prehistoric occupant to live there, only leaving the house for a weekly chess game in the park, not returning until early Wednesday morning, after seeing his daughter in Frisco. Apart from all that, the once grand house and grounds were set far back from the street. Almost as if it was an island in the middle of the upscale neighbourhood.

  On a Monday, two weeks later Ruddy saw Mr. Stevenson, leave their house one evening all dressed up in evening clothes. Him a three-piece, her red gown, not really Ruddy’s taste. However, what did he know? This money rich environment was very alien to the simple Ruddy. Some opera called Moscana was treading the boards at the Murdock Symphony Hall. So that night they would be all the way over on the East Side. Ruddy knew Mr. Stevenson, was a big wig in the Murdock Symphony Restoration Committee. Therefore, he figured the couple would not be able to resist. Going to the show, and the obligatory brown nosing afterwards, would be something neither could refuse. In addition, it was the butler’s day off, and to Ruddy it was just the right time to play his favourite game. Magpie, hunting out only the small trinkets, that most people like to hide away. Maybe help himself to all he could carry, without being disturbed. Back at his apartment on the lower West Side, Ruddy put on his disguise – several small rubber pads that, when applied with theatrical make up, would distort his cheek’s jaw line and eyes. And to finish the look; a ginger beard, that aged him five years. One final touch was too small wedges in his shoes to give him height. It was very different from the pulp magazines comical depiction of a thief with a stocking over his ugly mug.

  Then, he strapped in his silenced pistol to its leather holster under his jacket. He hated the weight of the silencer, and the delay a holster could cause in a shoot-out, however unlikely. But saying that if his pistol fell out of a pocket during the job, it could alert anyone. Both were necessary, he told himself. A loud muzzle clap was not what was needed on a job. Packing an extra magazine and torch into a small leather satchel, he let the pistol rest in its holster making sure it was a comfortable fit. Half an hour later Ruddy made his way to the Stevenson’s using the Central City Subway Tram and paying with the last of his small change. Another unwanted but necessary detail to save time, stopping a block or two away from West 35th Street where the pot of gold was. Ruddy went to a telephone booth at a spruced up mom and pop store that was open late, grabbing a quart of rum, paying with a greasy five-dollar bill, to settle his nerves when the time came. Dialling the Stevenson’s number “732-757-1986.” He remembered how hard it was to pick the pompous butlers pocket for his little black book, and gain the house telephone number. Ruddy really hoped they’d have been in the phone directory. That’s silver spoons for you, he thought, taking a quick hit of the warm rum. They just had to be different. He knew as he dialled the last digit that this was just another, probably un-needed, precaution that he’d drummed into himself.

  “From what I can make out here, I’m sorry to say there’s too little to go on. No obvious wound’s that would cause our friend here to croak. So if I had to guess I’d say poison of some sort if I had to take a stab. There were a few cuts on his flabby arms, but nothing too deep. Possibly defensive I’d wager, son,” Doug Hammet explained. Ezra had put the phone down and went about trying to busy himself as a distraction from the obese stiff blocking the office lobby. Jack downed his coffee, watching as his partner took a large shot of whiskey from a silver hip flask before he continued.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, our large friend here had on his person, one hundred dollars in various currencies, a leaky broken fountain pen, that dam faux gold pocket watch he seemed to love so much,” Hammet mumbled as he opened it. Inside, as expected, was a picture of a woman. Jack wondered if this was Jenna. His partner continued on, “an empty sterling silver cigarette holder with a broken clasp, and half eaten, half melted chocolate bar. Oh yes and a hotel key. Room 325.

  The Swanton Mayer”

  Jack got Ezra to note it all down in his book while he popped to his office
to get his brown duffel coat and an umbrella as it looked like rain.

  “His rather large clothes were old, maybe by a few years, yet they look expensive, or they were once. The jackets got some kind of Negro name in the label, maybe Nigerian or some kind of Zulu nonsense, either way it sure as hell ain’t English. For now, that is all I’ve got for you, Malone. Can’t do or say any more until the black and whites arrive. While I wait here, why don’t you take Ezra down to the Mayer, see what you can both shake loose. Good way to break the pup in, after all, he wants to be like you when he grows up. Ain’t that sweet, a lil’ Malone junior.”

  After a quick trip on the dam subway cart and a cab drive to the South Bank Island, Jack and Ezra were standing in the swanky hotel lobby of the Swanton Mayer. They were surrounded by a sea of marble and chrome. Its large lobby was busy with people and staff going about their daily business. Jack told Ezra to go speak to ‘his’ people. Not the Jews, this dive was to high end to employ Jews. Which Jack was disgusted by their lack of humanity, it made Jack wonder why he bothered even going overseas and taken a load of shrapnel. But that’s America these days. No Jack sent him to talk to every bellhop, bar tender, shoe-shine and door attendant he could find. Ezra, for all his faults, was better at talking to the hired help, than he was. Jack preferred the direct approach, not small talk.

  Jack weaved his way past the sea of business types, would be celebrities, and tourists. These fish were just in the way, and he was fishing for a lead, not them. After being shunned by a doorman for not wearing the right shoes and not giving a tip, he walked across to the main desk at the far end of the hotel floor. Taking a good hard look around, the smell of money reeked in this place and it made him feel dirty. It did not take long for Jack to clap eyes on the gent that sat at a small corner booth. This place was heaving, he looked around and couldn’t believe what he saw. Ingrid Bergman had just come out of a small side room. Jack couldn’t resist quoting Bogie, with a chuckle. as he saw her “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. ..”. A small school of fans and reporters were starting to grow. ‘That’s one classy dame’ Jack thought as he went back looking around. Looking towards the corner booth, he saw the loud, Irish gent he was looking for, who stood out like a sore thumb. Finlay Booth, the loud mouth, rude house copper. A stocky built man, arms as big as whisky barrels. Everyone knew Booth was more hotel heavy than a police officer was, but the so-called management preferred his version of hotel law than that of the city’s finest. Looking over at Booth, a memory flooded back to Jack. He’d been on the boot end of Booth’s law, and it was over a woman, and a husband who was none the wiser. The management didn’t like the mess Jack and his floozy’ made in the penthouse suite, so they sent in Booth. That was life, Jack thought, full of ups, downs and black-eye’s.

  “So who’s the woman this time, wait- let me guess a blonde, no a red head, with a distant uncaring husband. Am I close?”

  Jack felt his fist clench up tight, and subtly punched himself in the thigh to avoid slugging the Irishman. He ignored Booth’s sarcasm. “No dame this time ya fat leprechaun; business this time. It’s been one of them days, need a lead fast. This one’s on the clock”

  Booth didn’t seem to care much for Jacks plight, preferring to just scratch his ass,

  “Whatever. Malone. Room searches are a rookie’s job, or at very least a new flat foot. So unless you have a copper with a warrant or a nice roll of green backs stuffed nicely under that hat of yours, I’m not going to help ya’ pal” This cock-eyed jerk was close to a fat lip, Malone thought.

  “Cut the crap you gorilla, start to flap your lips. I have no time for this garbage. A fella’ just punched his card in our joint. Not good for business if you get me. He had one of your blasted keys. I knew it was yours. It had one of them garish swan motifs on the fob. 325.” Finlay took a moment to think. While Jack looked over at Ezra, whom to the P. I’s surprise, seemed to have caught a fish, the attention of a baby doll. Good for him. It was time he experienced life away from his old man’s reach.

  “325. That’s Ronson’s room, dead you say? Dam.”

  “Yeah, tumbled down right in the middle of our office. It shook up our old English rose, I tell ya’. Well, I would’ve been surprised if it didn’t.” The Irish grunted some kind of acknowledgement.

  “Who is this Ronson anyway?” Jack asked, hoping for a break.

  “To be honest, Jackie boy, I’d not normally have noticed the guy. If it wasn’t for, shall we say, his size.”Malone smiled, “sounds like the flabby stiff. Shall we look him up?”

  We sat on the desk, with the hotel register. It didn’t take long to find our mutual friend. Jack had even checked the telephone directory. There were four Ronson’s in this city; one in mid-town, two in the slums and the last in the rather posh Gold Peak district on the west side of the city. He thought he’d check them out. Who knows? he thought. It may lead somewhere, even if this was a bust. Jack crossed his fingers and hoped for some luck. His name was D.B Ronson. He’d booked for just the week. He’d had no mail or calls, in or out. Jack’s mood slumped. So far this lead was starting to go cold. Ezra had also found nothing from his hired help pals. Ronson’s key had never been left behind the desk, so finding out when he’d gone out and where was now impossible. It all relied on Room 325, but Ronson’s room didn’t give them much. His luggage was sparse at best, apart from a few rather large wrinkled shirts, strewn about over the bed. Booth made a jib about one of them wrinkled shirts almost being like a king sized cotton blanket that would drown Jack’s little prodigy. The clothes were easily bought from shops in the neighbourhood. None of them had any recognizable watermarks or labels, to tell Jack where he’d come from. After a quick look in a waste paper basket there were no useable receipts, just a half-eaten take out box from a Chinese joint The Jade Lion on the corner. There weren’t any documents or notes hastily scribbled down. The place was barren of anything that could help Jack sort this mess out. Booth was not pleased. He had a look on his face that could curdle milk.

  “If that rube hadn’t croaked it, he’d have shafted us, I think, and I’d have to work him over. Bozos that don’t carry the usual, no passport etc and don’t leave their keys, can’t normally be trusted to pay. That is a FACT. Oh and Jack halter your drooling pup over yonder. That doll face your boy was talking to with his tongue out was, shall we say, is a hotel hired call girl. The man upstairs hires the girls, for Mr. Big-Bucks and his pals, the other big spenders” Hearing that Jack started to laugh.

  “I hear you Fin, only Ezra could fall for a prostitute and not know it. I hear you.”

  Jack was about to leave and call it a night when a bell-hop came up with a police detective by the name of Decker, a detective from the 134th. He wasn’t a well-known member of the black and white brigade or made a name for himself, yet. In Central, a name meant more than wealth, and Jack especially hadn’t had the pleasure of his company yet. As a rule, Jack always tried to avoid detectives, thinking they were all oddballs, dullards or both. Especially the heavy-handed homicide goons, as nine times out of ten, trouble followed them at the end of a shooter.

  “Well, detective, you’ve been down to our joint. How’s the stiff shirt?”

  He just smirked at Jack, whose fist started clenching again. The so-called detective still had his mother’s milk dripping from his mouth. He was young, half Jacks age. It did not take much of a leap to think Daddy bought O’Toole’s badge, and the play police officer, would be detective, had daddy issues. “Still stiff, Jack, but the white coats defiantly think it was poison. Your resident old timer, also missed a rather large wound in the back of his thigh and gut. Granted they were hidden in two folds of fat.”

  Jack thought the whole business was very old testament, very book of Judges. Decker just carried on his pitch like a baby car sales clerk, hoping for tips.

  “The wound in his gut was corked. Our docs say by the folds of weighty fat, which probably allowed him to stagger to yo
ur place. Also, the wound in his thigh was stopped by a tourniquet under his trouser leg by what our nerds say is a torn piece of an Afrikaner Jellabiya. Some sort of tribal dress to you and me. Got a photo of it here.” Decker flung the photo in Jacks direction. The photo was hard to make out, being black and white. Thankfully, there was an almost ineligible scrawl on the reverse of its colour's. Olive, blue, with a tan patch work design. The long day had finally hit Jack who after letting the fatigue take over, waved in the coppers direction to take over.

  “Our doc from the morgue says if the poison did do the job, and if we took out the wound in the stiffs side, Ronson would have had two hours max poor sod. Toss up really, death by poison or blood loss, lovely. Anyway Jack what did you and Tonto find out?”

  Jack flung a half-baked salute to Booth who’d now grown bored, preferring instead to go pester a Cuban cat, who to the so called management must be up to something. Even if he wasn’t.

  “Well detective, the place was barren. He had nothing here when he came, bought nothing when he was here, had nothing and spoke to know one. Basically he was a ghost. Left no trail, mores the pity.” Decker, Jack could tell, wanted to go, but obligation kept him.

  “Jack, would it be so far reaching to think our pal Ronson could have been killed by a Negro, seeing how the wound was tied by some kind of voodoo tribal get up?”

  Hating to admit it, Jack nodded. It was possible and right now it was the best hunch any of them had. “Hey Ezra, do me a favour, run down to your pals and ask them about our Negro question. Firstly, if there are or have been any odd looking ones hanging about. Secondly, if any staff at this posh dump are of that colour persuasion, and finally, more importantly, if our stiff had run ins with them. Once you’re done, shoot on home, and let me know tomorrow.”