It all seemed jake to me. Matter of fact, it almost sounded better than my situation at the Taft. The Hotel Taft, on 7th Avenue between 50th and 51st, actually catered to a Broadway tourist crowd, but it kept me in the thick of things, Times Square and all. It wasn’t a luxe place to hang your hat, although it had once been. It still had those ornate chandeliers in the lobby. I thought they needed dusting.
There were still enough amenities to ignore its sordid past and its rep as a suicide magnet. For 40 years, it apparently had been a luxe place to jump to your death from one of its 20 stories. It started out as the Hotel Manger, and it got in big time trouble with the Feds for reportedly serving alcohol during Prohibition. A raid resulted in the arrest of several bellboys, waiters, and two bootleggers, as well as the padlocking of the building - big scandal, my kind a’ place.
The Taft Building was connected to the 6000-seat Roxy Theater. Hell, the Roxy lobby was inside the hotel building. The only bigger indoor movie palace in the world was Radio City Music Hall. At that very minute they were tearing the Roxy down. My thinking was that they were probably going to replace it with a Howard Johnson's.
***
“Woooo-dy. Line two. Dan Logan, DA’s office.”
I realized I had been counting bricks. I laid the weight on the side chair and glanced at the dial up service phone on the desk. The second of the two lights was flashing. What the hell was an aerial code, anyway?
I fired up a Lucky with the Mount Suribachi desk lighter, hit one end of the black plastic receiver with the heel of my hand, and caught it when it bucked into the air. I saw somebody do that on the television.
“Danny, you ol Leatherneck. You doin all right?”
“Hey, Hill Billy. I got no kick. Whatcha doon?”
“I’s just ordering you a Swinette from the Sears Roebuck.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a Swinette?”
“Why Lieutenant,” doubling up on my drawl, “it’s a musical instrument. You stretch a hair real tight across a hog’s ass and play it with your teeth.”
“Jarhead,” Dan said, “ when I next see your ugly face, you ain’t gonna have any teeth to play your Swinette with.”
“Damn, you got mean. I thought those square dancing lessons were gonna help you unwind!”
“Yeah, well, you’re ass ain’t been kicked until you’ve had a wheel in the crack of it.” I heard real irritation in his voice.
“Uh, got your message to call and I got some scoop for you. Want to meet for a late lunch?”
“Yeah, shu-wa,” Dan said. I smiled; the exotic accent wasn’t so attractive coming from him. “Where you at, your office? Want to meet at Zucca’s Italian Garden at the Rockefeller? 1400 okay? The number there is Plaza 7-3219, if you get held up.” Dan was always in high gear, always a Marine. 1400. I actually had to think; that’s two o’clock.
“Okay, sir. See you there.”
I liked Zucca’s. They had a very earnest slogan: ‘The quality of our food is always higher than the price’. Great buffet on what they called ‘The Roman Table’, the best meatballs. They did suffer a set back during WW II. The old man’s daughter jumped ship and headed to Europe to spread Nazi radio propaganda. They called her Axis Sally. She netted four years in the slammer after the war. Don’t know where she ended up. For all I know, she went back to cooking meatballs at the Rockefeller...
I needed to get moving and grab a clean suit at the Taft. From there, it was just a block to the Rockefeller Center. I squeezed out of my private office trying to run a comb through my hair. Gina had replaced the paper stacks on her desk with three cannolis displayed on a greasy brown paper bag. I did a U-turn and snagged my coffee cup. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t keep myself from smelling the red lip printed above the eagle, globe and anchor.
If Gina saw that, she said nothing. I pulled out my handkerchief and destroyed the evidence. I poured a cup of java and sat on the arm of the humble old leather couch. I was thoroughly enjoying the cannole and I was thoroughly enjoying watching that sweet kid across the room as she ate her pastry. She dabbed at her lip and spoke.
“This note you left” holding up a bar napkin, reading, “ ‘Cansell’, that’s c-a-n-s-e-l-l, ‘Medi X. Mon 9 AM. Orchard 5 2010’. Except for calling the number, I would never have known that you wanted to opt out of your meeting with the Medical Examiner. You... need to... learn to... spell and communicate in complete sentences.”
“Sugar Plum, your beauty is surpassed only by your brains. That blouse really brings out the color of your eyes.” Refueled, I sprang to my feet. “Never mind about that call to Mama. I need to get on back to the Taft and get cleaned up. Just gimme those goofy dialing instructions. You got any weekend plans?”
“Going on over to visit Ma and Grams after a while. Don’t forget, you and your mother, backyard cookout on the Fourth of July. You promised. Tonight, my friend, Mavis, is coming by to watch ‘The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet’ on the television. I’ll probably just come straight in to work Monday and go back to the Webster Monday night. I packed a little bag... Oh! Did I tell you? They NOW have TWO television sets at the Webster!”
‘What a good girl. HA! Girl! Twenty-two years old’.
“Don’t you think Ricky’s a little young for you?” I asked.
“Ricky is NOT why we watch the show.” She sounded convincing until the pink spread on her cheeks and confirmed my suspicions.
“You need carfare?” She pointed her cannole at the coffee can that housed most of our operating funds. Her little finger was separated from those gripping the pastry.
“Nah. I’ll just take the subway from Marcy. I’ll be at the 7th and 53rd Station in 45 minutes. I’ll be in a hot shower within the hour. Hey, that rhymes.”
‘Brother... when she rolled those big blue eyes’!
I dropped my shoulder holster over both arms at once and snapped it to my belt. I took two steps towards the window and palmed Ol’ Slab Sides. I locked the slide back and caught the unchambered round as I did it. I pushed the magazine release with my right thumb and dropped the mag into my waiting left hand.
I was a little surprised to find it and my spare chock-full. That hallucination at the Campo di Pissy the night before was still bothering me. I pushed the orphan round back into the mag and slid the mag back home. I racked the slide again to chamber a round, lowered the hammer to the half-cock notch and holstered the hog leg. Gina watched as she held her cup with both hands and blew air across it.
“How come you always carry your .45, Woody? You expecting trouble?”
“Noooo. If I’s expectin trouble, I’d take my shotgun.” I winked at her again and grabbed my jacket from the rack. I put the dirty thing on only to hide the mahoska. Hot shower, here I come. “Sweetie, you be careful running around by yourself.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “YOU be careful, you big lug. Life in the city must be hard on a farm boy with a speech impediment.”
I turned slowly and gave her my best James Dean look. I finally just jammed my hat on my head and left. She stopped laughing long enough to say, “Plant you now, dig you later.”
CHAPTER FOUR
(Saturday, June 11, 1960. Midtown Manhattan.)
I surfaced at the 53rd Street Station, turned left and walked a hundred feet to the avenue. I stood on the busy corner, lit a Lucky and glanced north towards Central Park, six blocks away. It was a straight shot past the vertical eight-story Wellington Hotel sign. The green treetops were barely visible beyond Central Park South at the bottom of the brownstone and glass valley of 7th Avenue. Sometimes the sea of fedoras, pillboxes and jockeying yellow cabs looked like maggots on a dead dog - that morning, they looked like rebirth, new life.
I slipped in with the sidewalk crowd and headed south, happy not to be tracking guineas. On the corner of 52nd Street, opposite Maudie O’Grady’s Saloon, a fine place to wet your whistle and meet the gals attracted to Broadway for their various reasons, I ducked under the maroon awning of Slotsky
’s Newsstand. There was room for four or five customers, if nobody wanted to browse.
“Hey, Slot, what’s new?”
Spreading his frail arms in his old man sweater, he smiled, “Look around. Take yer pick. How ya doon, Texas?” He’d called me Texas since the first time he heard my Memphis drawl.
***
I had known Slot since I wore an NYPD badge and walked that beat, long before I ever imagined I could afford an address in the area. One day, he called me in and said two boys, ten, twelve years old, had been hitting his store for smokes and candy bars. He said he’d run them off but he wasn’t as spry as he used to be. I asked if he was up for trying something different - when they showed up, position himself to yank down his security gate and put the lock on it.
He did just that and made the perps sit on the floor while he called the precinct. My Sergeant drove over, took the kids’ names and gave them a Come-to-Jesus speech that would’ve turned Al Capone around. The boys apologized to Slot who declined to press charges. I found out that Slotsky was a Marine who fought in France with the 5th Marine Regiment in World War I and later did occupation duty in Germany. He was no stranger to courage.
***
“Top a’ the world, Slot. Gimme that ‘Field and Stream’ and a deck a’ Luckies.” I pushed an ace across the counter. “Keep the change. Semper Fi.”
“Semper Fi, Mac.”
It was a peach of a day in New York City, maybe 75 degrees. I didn’t mind the walk south to the Taft. I hoped it would perk me up a little.
***
I moved to New York City almost immediately after the death of my wife, Virginia. Everything in Memphis had reminded me of her. To have her die two months after our wedding seemed too much to bear. With a Marine buddy’s help, I got accepted into the New York Police Academy and graduated in March of ’54. It was a natural, I mean, with my long time, but undeclared, wish to join the FBI. I lived at the William Sloane House YMCA on West 34th and 9th Avenue during the Academy and after.
It was a good facility at a great location, but the Armed Forces boys coming through seemed younger and younger. I was feeling older and older. Two things were crystal clear by that Christmas. First, I was not cut out to be wearing that blue uniform. All the rules and regulations were counterproductive to the job we were expected to do. Secondly, I had to get away from those kids at the ‘Y’. It really chapped my hide one day in the lobby when a slick-sleeved private called me ‘Pops’. That one day was December 10th, my 25th birthday.
By mid-January ‘55, I had turned in my badge and .38 revolver. I was out in the cold, almost literally. The YMCA was cheap, but I was getting real used to eating Vienna Sausages. I was on the nut and having vague thoughts of returning to Memphis. One morning I took the subway south to Lower Manhattan to see Dan Logan. He had moved from Philadelphia and hired on as an Assistant DA the previous summer. We had kept in touch after coming home from Korea.
Looking back, I think I went to say good-bye that day. Good thing I did. When I told Dan my sad story, he said he could use me as an investigator on a very important case. It would only be for a couple of weeks, and I might have to give up sleep. I told him I had already given up food. I took the job.
That night I bought a shoulder holster with a small wad of greenbacks I kept for, but refused to call, bus fare. I started packing my M1911 Automatic Colt Pistol, nothing like it for stopping power. That particular cannon found its way to the bottom of my seabag on a dock in Korea. The DA’s Office cut through all the red tape regarding my New York Private Investigator License. Within weeks, I had my PI ticket and was lawfully carrying that roscoe strapped under my arm.
Nine months with New York's Finest had displaced any childhood memories of ‘Mr. Policeman is your friend’. Of course, good work was being done on behalf of the citizens, but what it all boiled down to was controlling the situation, all too often, by just reacting to it. There was absolutely no time for influencing events or for public relations. The methods used by the police reflected how people lived life in the city; it was all direct and confrontational.
I had to drop my lifelong West Tennessee habits of dispensing unearned politeness and deference. I did know how to take care of business as a Marine, so that’s the mindset I employed. They couldn’t take my southern drawl, but my mind got hard and my fists got quick.
Those two weeks of work Dan gave me turned into two years. I partly worked for the DA’s Office, and I also worked for what Logan referred to as ‘the slush fund’. Regardless, C-notes are all green. When 1957 rolled around, I was hanging my hat at the Hotel Taft.
I bought the car of my dreams, a 1957 Studebaker Silver Hawk. It was midnight black with red leather and a four-barrel V-8 plant with 225 horses. I was stopped in my tracks the first time I saw it. I was walking past the Arma Studebaker Dealership on Flatbush Avenue late one night. It called out my name through the showroom window. They probably still have my palm and nose prints on their glass. The next day, I went back and talked to the folks inside. They were very nice.
The dealership had been in that location since 1938. Prior to that, since 1908, Arma Motors, Inc. was located in Manhattan on West 48th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues. They sold Studebakers and Mercedes Benz out of a converted church building. Story was, the family made so much money selling their half of a Manhattan block, they moved the Mercedes Benz operation to Queens and their Studebaker store to Flatbush in Brooklyn.
I test drove the Hawk and took delivery at the end of that week. A woman named Shirley Gilroy helped me with the paperwork. Shirley was... well, scary. Her makeup looked like she applied it with a spackling trowel. She used brake-light-red lipstick and had different shaped lips each time I saw her. She discounted at least 20 years of her life and let it be known she was available.
I was dining regular-like at Jack Dempsey’s Broadway Restaurant between 49th and 50th. Truth be known, I also did as much drinking there as I could squeeze in.
I had ‘W.R. Stone, Private Investigations’ cards printed up and worked a few side jobs out of my hotel room. I found the private eye business to my liking. It was generally easy money. I never met a target of a case that thought he’d ever get caught. On some level, they were all proud of their grand scheme.
I’m saying I didn’t always have time to shadow the goober in question. I’d just be around somehow, say where he was drinking. He’d usually tell me all about what he was up to. I call that easy money. Now, I have taken some lumps, too...
The important case that Dan Logan hired me for was dubbed ‘The Mad Bomber of New York City’ by the Times. I wore out a lot of shoe leather in the two years before George Metesky was arrested. He was charged with planting 37 bombs in New York City over a sixteen-year period. From the start, he would send crazy letters, with words cut from newspapers and magazines, to the police and news media. I tracked down the source of a letter he sent to the New York Journal American in 1957. That determined his identity and he was arrested three days later.
George was a man with a serious grudge. In 1931, he worked at an Upper Manhattan Con Edison Plant where he was injured on the job and left permanently disabled. He was bitter because the utility company refused to compensate him. In 1941, he decided to get his revenge and planted two small bombs at Con Ed buildings in Manhattan. Both were duds.
Metesky was not near hanging up his bombing spurs, but, in 1942, he sent a note in block letters to the NYPD letting them know that he was suspending his bomb-making activity until after the war was over. He stuck to his word.
It wasn’t until 1951 that he planted his third bomb near Grand Central Station’s Oyster Bar. Soon another exploded at the New York Public Library. His 37 bombs killed no one, but a men’s room attendant at Penn Station was seriously injured. The crackpot was found to be legally insane and incompetent to stand trial. He was committed to a mental hospital upstate, for the rest of his life, I guess.
***
Dan Logan, and his office, did have me doin
g other jobs during that time, some seemed like no more than running errands or being a courier. Some were bounty hunter in the Old West, Hopalong Cassidy stuff. What jumps into my mind is the time I tracked Poor Jack McCoy across three states in ’55.
I brought him back inside the trunk of his own Caddy. I brought his .38 slug back deep inside my leg. I remember that midnight run for another reason. I tuned the Delco to the high end of the dial and found a Connecticut Rhythm and Blues station. That’s where I first heard a white boy sing like he’d been born on the Delta. I thought he had a funny sort a’ name, Elvis, but he sure had the chops.
They dug Jack McCoy’s bullet out of my leg and kept me in the hospital for a few days. On one of those mornings, Dan Logan stuck his head in the door and announced there was someone who wanted to meet me.
“If you say so, Lieutenant. I wasn’t plannin to receive guests.”
“You’ll want to meet this one, Jarhead,” and he disappeared. Thirty seconds later, he limped in with two dark-suited bruisers in tow. They must’ve been a head taller, and he wasn’t short. As Dan maneuvered to my bedside, the two crew-cut giants stepped to either side of the door and stood at parade rest.
A wide-shouldered, athletically built man materialized in the doorway. He had gray hair and a tight trimmed mustache two shades too dark. He wore a pinstriped suit of a quality I’d only admired from a distance. Marching directly to my bed, he took my hand and tried to break the bones as he shook it twice.
“Son, I wanted to personally thank you for bringing in McCoy. There’s the murder rap against him, and he also may offer testimony crucial to an ongoing investigation. I’m sorry you took a slug in the leg. The doctor says all is well and you’ll be on the road to recovery as soon as you can bear weight on it.”
When the dapper stranger paused, I wasn’t quick enough. He grabbed my hand and tried to break any bones he’d missed.
The Case Of The Little Italy Bounce (Woody Stone, Private Investigator Book 1) Page 3