by M. Ravenel
“Yeah, well… it’s not often I go after boxing champions either.”
“Say what?”
“Look, I’m in a hurry. I need you, man. Now. Every second counts.”
Mitts glanced left and right again then sighed. “I’m working the doors tonight, Tootsie. I can’t just up and leave. You’re gonna have to talk to my boss.”
I scowled. “I ain’t in the mood for your boss’s jive talk. Go tell him you’re sick or something. Just make it quick, will you? I’m still on the meter.” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder toward the waiting taxi.
Mitts hesitated. “Tootsie, I can’t. I’m the only doorman he’s got tonight.”
I rubbed my hands over my face, exasperated. “I wouldn’t be coming all the way here, asking you this, if it wasn’t important. I’m on a case, and I need you tonight. Besides, you and I both know that Roy always has a backup plan.”
His square jaw tightened. “All right, fine. I guess I got the sniffles, huh?” He turned to the door. “Be right back.”
“And don’t you dare tell Roy I’m here!” I yelled over the cacophony of people’s voices and disco music that poured out as he opened the door.
The minutes ticked by as I anxiously paced back and forth, checking my watch. The noise of the lounge’s interior blared again as the entrance door swung back open, and Mitts stepped out, followed by Roy Ellison, the owner, who looked too flustered at Mitts to notice me. Roy, who was of average height and build, was wearing one of his many brightly colored gaudy leisure suits. Always so full of himself, that Roy, right down to his fashion sense. Groaning, I lowered the brim of my hat over my eyes and rushed back to the taxi.
“What do you mean you’re sick?” Roy exclaimed while Mitts continued toward the taxi, not looking back. “I need a bouncer! You can’t just leave!”
“Man, I’m about to puke all over this sidewalk if I stand out here any longer,” Mitts croaked, opening the passenger door. “Call Collins. He’s probably home. Tell ’im you’ll pay a bonus, and he’ll get here in ten minutes flat.”
“B-Bonus! You crazy, man?” Roy stared wide-eyed at him. Mitts squeezed in beside me and closed the door. I kept the brim of my hat lowered and turned my head away. Please don’t let Roy see me. Please don’t let Roy see me.
“Hey, hold on—who’s the broad?” Roy asked.
Mitts gulped. “Uh… my nurse.”
“She don’t look like—”
“¡Ve ahora!” I yelled to Matteo.
Roy gasped. “Wait. Is that—”
“¡Sí!” Matteo yanked the shifter into drive and punched the gas, jolting Mitts and me backward against the backseat. I raised the brim of my hat and looked out the rear window at Roy standing in the street, throwing his hands up in defeat. I exhaled a deep sigh.
“What are you trying to do? Get me fired?” Mitts asked once we were well on our way.
I blew a raspberry. “Roy ain’t gonna fire his best friend.”
“Tch. The way he’s been acting, I wouldn’t be surprised. You should’ve just let me tell him you were here. He might’ve chilled out a bit.”
“No. He would want a novel-sized explanation, and there’s no time for that. Anyway, it’s his own fault that he still can’t get it through his thick skull that my line of work demands long hours, and I’m rarely home, which is why I keep missing his calls.”
Mitts shrugged and shook his head. “Hey, he loves you. Can you blame him?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ugh. He’s nothing but a big baby.” Love was a strange thing that I’d never taken the time to explore at great length. Especially when I had more fun and interesting things to stimulate my mind, like solving mysteries, bringing bad guys to justice, and helping people. It was hard to believe that Roy, that snot-nosed neighborhood bully, had ended up becoming a good-looking Casanova who was also a successful business owner. Why he kept wasting his time chasing after some boring private detective with no social life instead of all the good-looking bombshells he’d seemed to attract without even trying was beyond me.
“All right, so you mind telling me what in the hell you’ve roped me into?” Mitts asked.
We crossed the Whitestone Bridge into the borough of the Bronx, and I gave Matteo the address to Cheryl’s place in Soundview. Then I filled Mitts in on my misadventures at Sunnyside Garden Arena.
“Darin Rivers…” He rubbed his chin, his eyes glazing over in thought. A corner of his mouth tugged upward, revealing a faint dimple in his left cheek. “So he’s back, eh? Man, that cat’s been outta the scene for a while.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You know him?”
“He was the talk of the local gyms, up until a couple years ago. I watched him train a few times, back in his heyday, and man, was he something else. People used to call him Rocket Rivers because of his quick hands and feet. Top it all off, he was a southpaw. Everyone thought he’d go pro one day. Maybe even get the opportunity to fight Ali or Frazier.”
“What happened?”
Mitts shrugged. “He was damn good, but he had a temper. Beat up a cop pretty badly over a speeding ticket, and that got him put away for a while. His career was over before it began. People forgot about him and moved on to the next young sensation, and he pretty much disappeared from the boxing scene.”
“I guess he’s trying to make a comeback, eh? But it seems he might be running with the wrong company.”
“It’s a shame, y’know? All that talent.” Mitts furrowed his brow. “Wait a minute. So is that why I’m here? You want me to take him out?”
“You’re my reinforcement. I’ve never had a case like this before, and I think I’m in over my head with this one. I don’t know Darin’s motives, and if he has a short temper like you say, then things might get a little rough.”
“Since when has a little rough stuff ever stopped you? Anyway…” He grimaced. “Don’t you have a gun?”
“Yeah, I do, but I really don’t want to have to use it on him, especially since he’s a possible prime suspect. Furthermore…” I tapped the side of my head with my finger. “I kinda need this brain for this line of work, y’know? I don’t need it bashed in by a pair of ‘rocket fists.’”
Mitts snorted. “And what am I? Chopped liver? You think I don’t care about messing up this pretty mug?”
The big bear was charming in his own way, but parts of his face bore old battle scars and bruises from his many years of street fighting and working as a bouncer. “Of course I care. But the fact is, you’d stand a better chance at knocking him out with those sledgehammer fists of yours than anyone else I know.”
“I ain’t a boxer. I mean, I did it for fun a few times, but that ain’t me.”
“You boxed. You brawled. You wrestled. No matter how you put it, you’re a man of the streets who’s made a lot of people see stars. Now, I need you to do it one more time.”
He let out a deep sigh and rubbed his hand down his face. “You’re killin’ me, Tootsie. Y’know that?”
I smiled at him. “I’ll make it worth your while. Promise.”
Chapter 6
We pulled up in front of a six-story apartment building in Soundview around a quarter after midnight. As I reached for my wallet, Mitts forked over the cab fare to Matteo. “Gray-see-us,” he said, opening the door.
Taking the cash, Matteo scrunched his brow at him then looked at me.
Rolling my eyes, I waved my hand apologetically. “Ah… no le hagas caso, por favor,” I said then slid out of the cab after Mitts.
Grinning, Matteo gave me a thumbs-up. “Todo está bien. Adiós.” He sped off down the street.
I glanced at Mitts flatly. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said then hustled along the short walkway toward the building’s entrance.
“Do what? Pay the fare?” He huffed, remaining several footsteps behind me. “You’re sticking your neck out tonight, Tootsie. It’s the least I could do.”
“Yeah, but I’m technically hiring you.” I stopped in front of a
n old, weathered doorbell panel affixed to the wall. One corner of the panel had rusted off, while three other corner screws fought to hold the thing in place. I ran my finger along the penned names that sat behind grimy, bronze-trimmed plates.
“Hey, we’re friends. I’m doing you a solid, remember? Besides, I’m trying to be all gentlemanly like.”
I slid a dubious glance over my shoulder at him. “You trying to be a gentleman is like trying to teach a caveman how to wear a tuxedo.”
Mitts laughed. “Hey, c’mon. I ain’t that bad.”
“Riiight.” I located Cheryl’s name—apartment 5B—and pressed the button beside it with my thumb. I waited a few moments, but there was no answer. Grumbling, I pushed it again. I hope I’m not too late…
I stared at the panel’s speaker, waiting eagerly to hear a woman’s voice, but all was silent.
Did she go out? I pushed the button again and again, but there was still no reply. I clenched my jaw. Am I too late? Is Darin there? Has something happened to her? I had to know for sure. I turned away from the doorbell listing and paced in front of the entrance doors.
“Either Cheryl’s not home, or she’s in big trouble. We have to get in there somehow,” I said to Mitts.
He shrugged. “Who’s this Cheryl chick? I thought we were going after Darin?”
“I’ve reason to believe that Darin might be up there with her—if she really is home. He might be holding her hostage, for all I know.”
“Or, y’know, she could just not be home.” He assessed the door then shook his head. “Reinforced steel. Ain’t no way we’re busting our way through there.”
I thought for a moment. I was running out of options. Gritting my teeth, I kicked the door in frustration.
“Hey, look.”
I swiveled my gaze to Mitts, who was focused on something in the street. I turned just in time to see a taxi cab park along the curb.
“Maybe it’s Cheryl,” Mitts said.
The taxi door flew open, and a pair of legs with one red high-heeled shoe attached fluttered kicks in midair.
Maybe… I elbowed Mitts in the arm then muttered, “Be cool. Act like we’re looking for my keys.” I fished my keyring from my trench coat pocket and began pawing through it.
“Okay…” Mitts watched me curiously. Then he shrugged and reached into one of the deep pockets of his trousers. He yanked out a wad of keys secured around a single ring that was attached to a chain.
I did a double take. “Geez Louise! You got the keys to every building in Queens or something?”
“Naw. See, this one’s for Kronos’s office. And this one’s to the storage room. And this one here’s to my apartment. And this one’s—”
“Never mind.” I glanced back at the parked taxi, where a skinny man in a funky blue suit hopped out from the rear driver’s-side door and raced around to the other door with the mysterious pair of legs.
“C’mon, baby. Stop being like that,” Skinny said. “Where’s your other shoe?”
The legs gave an energetic kick that sent the remaining shoe flying, and a young woman in a sparkly red Halston dress leaned out of the cab. The man scooped her out onto the sidewalk, and she fell against him, giggling.
“Less go up’n ’ave a drink, Big Daddy,” Ms. Red slurred at her escort.
He wrapped a long black coat around her shoulders, grabbed a tiny clutch purse from the back of the cab, and stuck it in one of the coat’s pockets. “I think you’ve had enough for one night,” he replied, steadying her on her feet. He headed toward the entrance, his gaze darting left and right, as he was clearly looking for a way to escape. He stopped before me and Mitts. “Hey, you guys live here?”
“Yeah, why?” I asked.
“Uh, you mind getting Vivian here up to her apartment? I, um… got a family emergency I need to take care of.”
I deflated a little, realizing that this woman wasn’t Cheryl. “Sure. You got her key? It’ll take us all night to find ours.” I prodded my thumb at Mitts, and he cracked a gap-toothed smile, holding up his jangling wad of keys.
Skinny reached into Vivian’s coat pocket and pulled out the clutch purse, which was made of the same sparkly fabric as her minidress. Without looking inside, he simply handed it to me. “Here.”
“Uh, thanks.” I took the purse, quirking an eyebrow at him. By the way the man kept his gaze averted, I wondered whether he really had an emergency or was simply in a hurry to escape this woman. My cynical side was betting on the latter.
Skinny shot Vivian a spooked look then did an about-face and bolted back to the taxi faster than a greyhound. As the cab pulled away, Vivian’s other shoe sailed out of open back window and bounced along the sidewalk.
“Heeey! Whereya goin’? Come back!” Vivian stretched her hand toward the taxi as it screeched around a corner and was gone. She tottered forward, and Mitts caught her midfall.
I opened the clutch purse and looked inside to find a lipstick, a compact, a loose dime, and a thin gold-colored wallet with “V.N.” stamped in one corner in fancy monogramed lettering. Beneath the wallet was a tarnished bronze unmarked key. But to which apartment? I scanned the doorbell listing and located the only name with “V.N.”: V. North, apartment 3D.
“You get Vivian. I’ll get her purse and shoes,” I said to Mitts as I stuck the key into the keyhole and twisted it. The lock clicked open. When he didn’t answer, I looked over my shoulder at him.
Vivian stared heavy-eyed at Mitts and chortled. “You’re cute.”
Mitts grinned sheepishly as he continued holding her in his arms, his eyes clearly drawn to the cleavage revealed by her dress’s plunging neckline.
“Mitts! Eyes up.” I snapped my fingers.
He blinked and looked my way. “She said I was cute.”
“Yeah, and she’s also drunk as a skunk.”
The apartment elevator stank like piss and mildew, and the pulleys screamed all the way to the third floor. It beat hauling a drunk up the stairs, though. Vivian invited Mitts for a drink and even stoked his manly ego when she called him Big Daddy, but Mitts managed to peel her off him and stuff her through her doorway without getting caught up in her spell. I was proud of the big bear. I tossed the purse and shoes after her and slammed the door.
“Now, to Cheryl,” I grumbled. The elevator had moved down to the second floor, so I headed for the stairwell.
“Ugh, do we have to take the stairs?” Mitts whined as he followed me reluctantly.
“Well, I sure ain’t gonna wait around for that foul elevator again.” I opened the door to the dimly lit stairwell, my nose immediately sensing that it had been frequently used as a lavatory. I climbed the stairs two at a time, dodging stray garbage and broken toys until I reached the fifth floor. I looked down the pit of stairs to find Mitts still on the third floor, steadily trudging his way up.
“C’mon, man! You’re supposed to be in shape!” I called.
He huffed. “I didn’t train to run a damned marathon!”
“Geez Louise. It’s just stairs.” I opened the exit door and stepped out into a narrow hallway clad in grungy polished brick and lit by the only two of the six dome lights still burning in the cracked yellow ceiling. The stench of the stairwell was quickly overpowered by the delectable aroma of meats and cooked peppers wafting into the hallway from one of the apartments. Mitts finally joined me and bent over, panting, letting the stairwell’s exit door crash closed behind him. I turned to shush him, placing my finger over my lips, then slinked down the hallway. I halted in front of 6B.
Mitts came lumbering up behind me.
I pounded on the door. “Cheryl! You there? What’s going on?”
“Leave!” a man’s gruff voice boomed from inside the apartment.
“Darin?” I called.
“I said leave!”
I pushed back from the door. It had to be him. Am I too late? “I’m here to see Cheryl. If she’s in trouble, I’m going to call the police!”
The lock turned immediatel
y, and the door opened a crack. Half of a man’s head appeared, part of his face shadowed. A dark-brown eye glared at me. “Cheryl ain’t here. Get lost,” he growled.
My throat tightened again, and I wedged my foot in the door. “Darin? Is that you?”
The man scowled. Something small and silver glinted in the light as he slipped his right hand behind his back. “This is your last warning.”
This guy was packing, and he meant business. I glanced at Mitts and jerked my head toward the door. Mitts lifted one massive leg and drove it into the scarred wood like a pile driver. The door flew open, splintering at its hinges as it hit the wall, then bounced back. Before it could slam shut again, the side of Mitts’s solid forearm stopped it. He charged into the apartment, with me right on his heels, my hand already on the butt of my .38 inside my trench coat.
Cigarette smoke hung in the air. A man, too bulky to be Darin, stumbled backward as we erupted into the room. He held one arm back, shoving a woman—Cheryl, I assumed—behind him, as if protecting her. I recognized the man from the fight. Towel Guy, one of Darin’s cornermen. Did Darin send him here to do his dirty work? None of this makes sense.
Towel Guy shoved Cheryl away, whipped out a revolver from behind him, and aimed it at Mitts and me. “Take another step, and you’ll both be eating lead,” he warned.
“Put the gun away,” I said, keeping my hand poised in my trench coat. “Where’s Darin? Why are you doing this?”
“I ain’t tellin’ ya shit. Now get outta here!” His dark eyes focused on me.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Cheryl yelped and scrambled back behind the couch.
With an angry roar, Mitts charged Towel Guy. I ducked out of the line of fire and yanked out my gun. A shot rang out—a shot that wasn’t mine—and popcorn-ceiling dust showered down like snow flurries. Steady ringing resonated from my ears as the acrid stench of gunsmoke overtook the room’s stink of cigarettes. The two men clashed like bulls. Mitts held Towel Guy’s gun arm down and away, while Towel Guy struggled to lift his arm.
I rushed toward the men and delivered a spinning kick to Towel Guy’s wrist, sending his little .32 flying. Now, evenly matched, the two men went sprawling, trading blows. Towel Guy drove his fist into the side of Mitts’s ribs. Huffing, Mitts doubled over for a second then lifted his head, giving the man a smile. It was one of those sadistic kind of smiles Mitts only did whenever he was shot up with adrenaline-fueled pleasure. Mitts lunged to his feet and clocked the other man solidly in his jaw. Spittle flying out of his mouth, Towel Guy spun like a top and dropped like a rock, out cold.