“The penthouse is for us, don't you think, Tony?” O'Meara chuckled.
“I'm sorry, gents, but there's no penthouse in this building, although the view from the top floor isn't bad.” Either Joe was on the sauce again or was more stupid than I had imagined.
“Listen, pinhead,” O'Meara snarled, “get us down to the ground right now or you'll be spending the night in the slammer.” And following those gentle words he slapped Joe on the back of the head.
Outside, the building Bruttafaccia shoved me into the backseat of the patrol car. In under five minutes we reached the 13th Precinct, a forlorn gray building that had witnessed buckets of tears, countless bruises, and untold broken hearts. I feared that I was about to add to that sad collection, and for no good reason whatsoever.
We walked upstairs to the second-story office of Lieutenant Andrew “Andy the Assburn” Ashburn, a grizzled old-school copper who took no guff but gave plenty. He was sitting behind a cluttered desk and in front of a wall graced by photos of the mayor, J. Edgar Hoover, and Babe Ruth.
“Well, well, well. If it isn't Dirty Dick DeWitt himself. Fancy meeting the lousy shithead private eye.”
I could tell that the Assburn was no more pleased to see me than I was to see him. I was not slow to pick up subtleties.
“Listen, Lieutenant, I didn't kill any chink waiter. What am I doing here?”
“You're doing here, DeWitt, because word has it that you did in the Chinaman and sent him off to his Happy Hunting Grounds or wherever the slant-eyes go when they kick the bucket.”
“Says who?”
“I don't have to tell you but I will since I'm a nice guy.” He looked behind me. “And wipe those smirks off your mugs, O'Meara and Bruttafaccia, or you'll both be back walking beats on the other side of the river!” He looked at me again. “Now, as I was about to say before the mick and the goombah so rudely interrupted, word came from an anonymous caller who seemed to know quite a lot about the event and your part in it.”
“Did the caller have an accent?”
“As a matter of fact he did. Sounded like a spic to me. Why do you ask?”
“Because I'm on a case where some Latin sweetheart has already kidnapped a dame, threatened me, and was probably the one who killed the waiter. I bet that the bastard has tried to set me up to take the rap for the murder.”
The Assburn lit a cigar, blew a few rings, and grinned. “You never know, DeWitt, but (puff, puff) you're our prime suspect, at least until another one comes along.”
“You've got no evidence against me, Lieutenant. You don't even know that I was ever at the slop joint.”
“Wanna bet? We've got your prints on the chopsticks and some dishes.” He blew another ring. “Now what do you say to that, smart boy?”
I was astonished. I asked him when he got my prints. He said the forensics man got them yesterday.
“Yesterday!”
“Yeah, yesterday. You don't think these Chinamen throw out their chopsticks or wash their dishes every day, do you?”
I was flabbergasted. I explained what had happened and asked what killed the old guy.
“We think someone, probably you, slipped some arsenic into his moo goo gai pan, but we won't know for sure until the lab report comes back in a couple of days.” He smiled. “Want to confess before then and save the taxpayers of this fair city a few bucks, shamus?”
I was sweating like a greased pig. The Black Llama had put me in a tough spot, all right, and I didn't know how I was going to squeeze out of it. “I want to call a lawyer, Lieutenant.”
“Sure, sure. We'll let you do that. Did you think we were going to get the rubber hose and beat the crap out of you until you cried 'uncle' and confessed? We're not those kinds of policemen, are we boys?”
“Nah,” said Bruttafaccia with a sly grin on his swarthy face. Jack the Ripper O'Meara looked tight-lipped and remained ominously silent.
“Come on, boys,” the Assburn said, “let DeWitt call his shyster and see if he can wiggle out of this one.”
The trio left the room and the telephone to me. I called the office. “Hello, Dotty, were you able to get me some help yet?”
“Not really, but I did finish a couple more chapters of Moby Dick. That's really a great book, even if it's only about a whale. You should read it sometime.”
And you should go, I thought, and… Never mind. I'm in too much of a jam to deal with this ditzy airhead. “Did you call anyone, Dotty?”
“Oh sure, Mr. D, I called your mom and your ex-wife.”
“And?”
“Well, your mom said something about a can opener you had given her and, funny, she also said something about hell freezing over. She sounded just like those men you went to coffee with.”
Good old Mom. “What about my ex-wife?”
“When she heard that a couple of men had handcuffed you and were taking you for coffee, she started laughing hysterically. She said she hadn't laughed as hard since the last Laurel and Hardy comedy, and that she hoped they give you a lot of free coffee to drink. That was nice of her, don't you think? I don't know why you always say she's such a nasty person, Mr. D.”
“I guess I just misjudged her, Dotty,” I said through gritted teeth. “Now keep trying to get me a lawyer or I'll fillet your Moby Dick.”
I hung up and waited for the Assburn and his goons to return. I didn't have to wait long since they apparently were standing outside the door listening to my call.
“No lawyer yet, DeWitt? Gee, and here I thought you were a friend of the bar. Or is it 'bars'?”
That one got a horse laugh from O'Meara and Bruttafaccia, who both knew which side of the toast to butter for favors and promotions.
“Tell you what, DeWitt, we're going to let you go for now, although we expect you to be visiting again real soon. Christmas is just around the corner, so you better get your shopping done before you come back here for the holidays.” The Assburn took a few more puffs on his stogie, which now was threatening to burn his fingers. “But you'll like it here with us, won't he boys? We'll have some real yuletide cheer and maybe find a red suit for you to wear.” Puff, puff. “With stripes, of course.”
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee laughed again.
“And maybe Bruttafaccia can dress up as Santa Claus and come down the Precinct chimney.” The Lieutenant looked at Holy Canoli. “Of course he's as fat as Fatty Arbuckle. He'd probably get stuck.”
This time only O'Meara laughed.
“Okay, beat it, gumshoe, and go have a good time spying through keyholes on cheating husbands and wives. But don't make no plans to go south and pick up a tan. Matter of fact, don't make plans to leave the city, period.” Puff, puff. “And,” he said, pointing his cigar at me, “I promise you'll enjoy Christmas here with us.”
“That's real white of you, Lieutenant,” I said about five seconds before either O'Meara or Bruttafaccia slapped me on the back of the head. I was about to ask my pleasant company if they knew what dirty nickels were made of, but I wasn't in the mood for more physical abuse.
I walked out of the office, down the stairs, and out of the building. The cold sleet outside felt better than the hell inside.
17
The sleet came down harder as I walked back to my office, but I didn't mind. It was lunchtime, but I wasn't hungry. I was in big trouble with the police. And let's not forget the Black Llama. Funny how problems can make you forget about food and sleet and such things.
I didn't feel like answering any nosey questions that Joe the elevator man was bound to ask, so I climbed the eight flights of stairs to the office, which I often did in any case. I looked at the sign on my office door, “Dicks DeWitt: Private Investigator,” and wondered how long it would be up there before I lost my job or my life and the scumbag landlord found a new tenant.
“Mr. D, you're back so soon!”
Nothing like an understanding secretary to cheer one up. “Yeah, I was getting tired of the java, and besides, it wasn't my brand.”
“Why don't you go for lunch, Dotty?”
“I was just thinking the same thing, Mr. D. Can I bring you back anything?”
“No, Dotty, but take your time. I'll handle things here.”
Once Little Miss Genius took her sweet fanny out I settled back in my swivel chair to swivel a few thoughts as to how I was going to get out of the worst mess of my life. Well, second-worst mess. I had momentarily forgotten that I used to be married to Frankenstein's daughter.
As I saw matters, I had to pursue the Black Llama and keep the Assburn and his gorillas off my back at the same time. And the longer it took for me to catch the former and clip his wool, the shorter would be my freedom from the graft-dirtied clutches of the latter. Good luck, I told myself, and made a note to start my Christmas shopping and card writing a lot earlier than usual.
I needed help. That's for sure. Was there anyone I knew who could help me catch the greaser? Was there anyone who could convince the local gendarmes that I wasn't their man?
Presto, the light went on. I hadn't thought of retired police sergeant Philip “Polish Phil” Mazurki since I munched a few pierogies with him more than a year ago. George Washington, I had learned, was first in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen. Polish Phil, as I recall, was first on the take, first on the make, and first in the donut shop. The fact was that downing too many of those filled or fried sinkers did in his gall bladder and forced him to take early retirement on a small pension, handsomely supplemented by the years of graft he had accumulated. Phil had given new meaning to the word “corruption” and had become a legend for many cops and an icon for almost as many. He still must be pretty well off, I reckoned, if he hasn't spent it all on dames by this time. The odd thing was that once a dame with any looks whatsoever saw him in the daylight she took off as fast as she could, leaving his pot belly, bad teeth, and slightly crossed eyes to ogle the next broad who caught his eye, although I was never certain which eye it was.
But Phil was a good sort as far as I was concerned. He went after those he was inclined to go after with the tenacity of a bulldog, could be honest if the need really arose, and was loyal to those he called his friends. Due to a small favor I did for him, I had become one of those friends and was now wondering if he could help me in return. It was worth a try. I strode over to Dotty's desk and fingered through the directory until I found “Mazurki, Philip.” I dialed the number.
“The Mazurki residence,” announced a voice in the throes of laryngitis or an awful cold.
“Hi. Is Phil there?”
“No, I'm afraid that Mr. Mazurki is out attending to his affairs.”
You've got that right, I thought, wondering who the hoity-toity guy giving me the info was. “Do you know when he'll be back?”
“Mr. Mazurki is a man of indeterminate hours,” he explained. “But I'll certainly inform him of your call. Kindly give me your name and number, if you please.”
Either this mug was a male version of Emily Post or knew that lady's book of etiquette by heart. What the hell was he doing with a slob like the Polack, I wondered. Had Phil hired a butler? Anyway, I gave him my name and both my office and home numbers and asked him to have Phil get back to me as soon as possible.
No sooner did I hang up than Dotty returned. She was out of breath. “I just had the most wonderful sandwich for lunch,” she announced.
I knew that I shouldn't have asked, but I did.
“It was a tuna on rye at that new place that opened last week next to Woolworth's. I'm going back for more tomorrow and maybe the day after that, too.
“Dotty, I thought you disliked tuna.”
“Oh I do, Mr. D, but it seems only right that I eat it while I'm reading Moby Dick.”
And it seemed only right at that point that I should get out of the office. I took the stairs once again to avoid Joe and walked to a nearby deli, where I wolfed down two hot dogs smothered with sauerkraut, mustard, and plenty of diced onions, and washed them down with a celery and tonic. I was in the mood for a stroll to help clear my fogged mind, but it was still sleeting. Besides, I was hoping that Phil had called or soon would.
Joe was standing by the elevator when I returned and gave me a big greeting. I had no choice but to ride up with him and hope that the alcohol on his breath would not knock me out. “Geez, Mr. DeWitt, those were two tough-looking pals you were with. Your secretary Dotty told me that they were taking you for coffee. Was it good?”
I felt like a ping-pong ball battered back and forth between first one clunkhead and then another. The second one was reading when I entered my office. She managed to look both disturbed and pleasantly excited at the same time. “Did you know, Mr. D, that a whale has tons of sperm?”
I confessed to her that I hadn't given much thought to the matter nor would in all likelihood lose sleep over it either. I asked if anyone had called. She said no, but given her spellbound concentration on the big fish's sperm count there was room for doubt.
No calls by four o'clock, and so I sent Dotty and the big sperm boy home. Having nothing waiting for me at my own home except some stale leftovers, the radio, and a couple of magazines, I decided to stay for a while. I played with my gun (no, not that one) and leafed through a couple of old cases that I had failed to settle to my satisfaction or, even more, to the clients' satisfaction. Can't win them all, I thought, not in this kind of tough, dog-eat-dog world we live in. I grunted, put on my coat and hat, and was halfway out the door just a few minutes before five when the phone rang.
“Hello? Hello? That you, Phil?”
“No, señor. It's your amigo. You know, the one who's going to get you. Hasta luego, gringo.” And with that the sonofabitch hung up.
It was one of those days.
18
And it wasn't over yet. After this most recent threatening call from the Llama, I decided to carry my .38 with me at all times. Never could tell when he might try to take me out, and it seemed pretty certain that he was going to try. Armed, I locked the office door and exited the building. The sleet had lightened to a fine drizzle, which was pricking at the umbrellas of workers on their way home after another boring day on the job. My day had at least not been boring, although I gladly would have traded my tryst with the Assburn and his baboons and the call from El Greaser for a nice extended yawn. Meanwhile I wondered if the Llama was somewhere among the passersby just waiting to slip a little lead or a shiv into me. As I walked I kept my hand on my piece, which I was carrying in my coat pocket. At one point I almost pulled it out when some dame, who was yakking with another one and paying no attention to traffic, nearly poked my eye out with her umbrella. She excused herself, and I settled for giving her a good shove that sent her into the arms of the other yakker.
I decided to stop at Ma's for supper. I was hoping that Betty's tour of duty had finished, but my favorite waitress was there to greet me when I arrived.
“Well, well, if it isn't Boston Blackie himself. I thought by this time J. Edgar Hoover would have called you to help clean up the nation's crime. What's the matter? You got an unlisted number?”
“It's unlisted for you, Betty, although I doubt if you could figure out how to use a phone even if you had someone dialing for you.”
Betty didn't like that one bit. “Okay, DeWitt, let's cut out the nice talk. Know what you want or do you want to see a menu? Sorry, but the menu ain't like the comics. It only has words, but I'll explain them to you.”
The day had depressed my spirits, and I wasn't in the mood to continue this palaver. I ordered the meatloaf platter, which came with mashed potatos and succotash. I picked at the food half-heartedly but still managed to down it and a slab of pumpkin pie and a cup of coffee afterwards. I left Betty a nickel tip, realizing that it would be the last tip I would give her if the Llama had anything to say about it.
The drizzle had stopped when I left Ma's. It didn't take me long to get back to my apartment, where I threw off my clothes, took a hot shower, and poured myself a good helping of sneaky pete. I turned on the radio but wasn't in the mood for the crime story it was featuring. I picked up a magazine but couldn't concentrate on any of the articles. Then the phone rang, giving me hope that Polish Phil was the caller. He wasn't.
“Well, sonny boy, I see that you're not in the cooler. What did you do this time? Why did they let you out?”
Good old Mom. Unwilling to go into details, I explained that it had all been a mistake and that everything was copacetic now. She seemed disappointed but I couldn't tell for sure. She did remind me, however, that I should get to my Christmas shopping, and no can opener either.
She didn't ask me what I wanted from her, but I hoped that she'd skip the tie or pair of Argyles that had been my usual yuletide gift. Still, the warm socks might come in handy if the Assburn had me in the can for the holidays, supposing that the Llama hadn't given me his gift first. “'Tis the season to be jolly.” For some.
Almost as soon as I finished pouring another libation—Mom's calls invariably had this effect on me—the phone rang again. Polish Phil? Not on your sweet petunias. It was my charming ex-wife.
“Back so soon? Didn't like the room? The view didn't suit you? This wasn't the day for serving caviar and filet mignon?”
It had never been difficult for me to figure why our marriage had failed and this call proved no exception. Time had not smoothed her sharp tongue nor added sugar to her vinegary disposition.
“I'm in no mood for this,” I said. “What do you want?”
“I don't want anything,” she snapped. “I just called to remind you not to be late with this month's alimony or you will be in jail for Christmas, New Year's, and any other holiday that you care to celebrate. I've got shopping to do, and I don't want you to louse it up. Besides, my brother Al will be coming to stay here for a few days, and I want to fix the place up real nice.”
The Black Llama Caper Page 8