You Can’t Catch Me
Lawrence Lariar
CHAPTER 1
Chicago
11:15 A.M.—Monday, July 17th
I wheeled my crate through the entrance to the Card Club, a stone and metal gateway that bore only the simple legend: RICO BRUCK, on the high edge of the masonry. It was a simple sign, a copper square as dignified as the front door to a ladies’ seminary. The pebbled drive led up to a long, low and rambling building, rigged to look like a millionaire’s hideaway among the big oaks on the smooth lawns that lined the lake.
I parked my car in the quiet circle on the north side of the house. I pulled out my little sketch pad and started a drawing of the doorman. There was time to waste. My date with Rico was a good half hour away.
So I sketched the big ape. He stood with his feet planted before the door, his hands locked behind his back, as he rolled and rocked on his heels. He was dressed in a doorman’s costume, something out of the court of Louis the Fourteenth maybe, complete with gold braid and enough buttons to start a factory. He looked big and strong and dignified. All but his face.
I sketched the broad flat plane of his jaw. He had a face straight out of the crime books; a menacing mug calculated to make all visitors pause and reflect before entering Rico Bruck’s sanctum without an invitation. He had a broken nose, fat and square. Somebody had hit him head on, long ago. Somebody had tagged him forever with the pulpy proboscis of the seasoned pug, the mushed and mangled mark of the professional thug. His face was easy to put down on paper, even for me, an amateur caricaturist. Once I would have sketched this head in detail, giving it the full treatment with the soft pencils and the rubbed shadows. But my zeal for an art career had died a long time ago, before I entered the army. Now I only doodled my pictures, putting down interesting faces for my file wherever I found them. Over the years, I had sketched them all, in police line-ups and courtrooms. Some people collect stamps or old china or cigar bands. I collected faces. I finished the profile shot of the gorilla and folded it away. It was time to see Rico Bruck now.
At the door, the ape held up a hand. He opened his mouth and the flicker of his dentures showed plenty of gold in his flabby mouth.
“I saw you making a picture,” he growled.
“You saw right,” I said.
“Tear it up.”
“What the hell are you—an art critic, or a doorman?” I asked. Up close, he was as tall as I, but stacked for moving girders, broad and beefy around the shoulders.
“Rico don’t like people to make pictures without he gives them permission,” said the monster. “So tear it up like a good boy.”
He had his giant paw held out, palm up, as casual as a collector of tickets in a theater lobby. He showed me the hard edge of his scowl and took one step my way. I didn’t budge. He continued to move his hand toward my arm, so that I had to slap it down to promote my strength of character. He paused in his purpose, to appraise me carefully, making up his mind about me and finding me a problem.
I said, “Why not let Rico decide about my work of art?”
“You want Rico?” he asked.
“I’ve got a date with Rico.”
“Later,” he said, eyeing me with the wide-open stare of the punchy fighter, as shallow as the depth of his intellect. “Come back when the place is open.”
“It’s open now. Rico wants me.”
“Who? Rico wants who?”
“Me. Mike Wells.”
“You got a card, chum?”
“A date,” I said. “I have a date, not a card.”
“What for? You selling something?”
“Pistachio nuts. Rico wants to buy my pretty pistachio nuts.”
“Nuts is what I say,” said the ape shaking his head stubbornly and closing his eyes. He rocked back and forth, a tempting target if I could catch him on the backswing. “If Rico asks you to come here, he gives you a card, see? You show me the card or roll the hell out of here. Orders is orders.”
He was giving me the business, the routine check that all strangers must undergo before passing through the front portals into the exclusive interior of the Card Club. I had heard about the procedure, a legendary rule created to insure an exclusive attendance inside the mansion. Rico Bruck catered only to the upper-class gambling maniacs in Chicago, the deluxe trade he drew from the socially elite, the famous, the infamous and the notorious characters who patronized his gaming tables. It was a system he had inaugurated three years ago, a successful gimmick that eliminated the middle-class enthusiasts and thus restricted his wheels of chance to the fancier folk who could afford to lose their loot and go away smiling, to return another day. A small black card admitted the regulars into the gay dining hall, where they were treated to a gourmet’s feast, for free, before passing on to the dice and roulette.
I said, “Use your head, big boy, Rico’s going to be mad at you if I leave this dump.”
“Orders is orders.”
His stupidity goosed me into anger and I sidestepped him toward the door. In that moment, his larded hand reached out for me and grabbed me up high, on the shoulder. He was a big bad boy and he had a grip that lifted my jacket and held it as gently as a bulldozer playing with a tree stump. He jerked me back and off balance, but I gave him my elbow as I fell his way and he grunted and released the pressure on my shoulder. After that, we were all over each other. I had figured him for an ex-pug, the type of strong man who goes soft in the navel as time eats the hardness out of the muscles. I figured him wrong.
He must have been a professional wrestler in his youth. He tripped me neatly, and on the way down his big fist caught me near the gut, hard enough to make me pause and think my way out of his next attack. I let him come to me and when his great head leaned my way, I kicked up at his groin and caught him under the belt line with my knee. He gasped and grunted and called me a dirty name. But he was falling now.
We rolled off the thin strip of concrete and down on the graveled driveway. We kicked up a lot of dust and pebbles and I worked him around for a quick stab at his sweating face. He was grinning down at me, enjoying the exercise, his pig eyes burning with a happy gleam. He missed me with his left and his iron fist skimmed past my ear and smacked the pebbled drive. He recoiled in pain, and in that quick tick of torment I decided to put him away. I kicked up at him and this time my toe found its mark. He sagged and grabbed for his stomach, his eyes closed against the pain. I crossed a right to his jaw and he dropped away and hit the curbing with a flat slap. I was angry enough to dish out more, but the sound of a car rolling up the driveway changed my mind.
There was a girl in the car and she was screaming “Elmo!” in a high and hysterical voice. She parked the car a few inches from his head and hopped out. She was something special, a trim blonde with a smooth and stimulating stride. She kneeled to examine me, allowing me to sample the close-up of her bumps and hollows, skillfully displayed and accented by the simple silk ensemble she wore. She had a warm and husky voice, as provocative as an amateur Tallulah Bankhead.
“Did he hurt you?” she asked.
“I’ll live,” I said, getting off my butt and brushing the pebbles away. The doorman blinked his eyes and when he saw her his face went dumb and simpering, like a schoolboy caught in the pickle jar.
“What’s it all about, Elmo?” she asked.
“This jerk said he wanted in,” Elmo said. “But he don’t show me no card… So I ask him—”
“And I told him,” I interrupted. “Shall I tell you now?”
“Tell me,” she said pleasantly.
“My name is Mike Wells, and Rico sent for me.”
&
nbsp; “Well now, Mike,” she said. She had been staring at me curiously, but when I mouthed my name, her attitude changed and her smile broadened and she slipped into easy laughter—not mean, not nasty, but as friendly as a warm handshake. Her laugh had the same quality as her husky dialogue, and a little more. She showed her amusement in a relaxed way, so that you thought immediately how nice it would be if you could get her to listen privately to a few of your real belly laughs. “I owe you an apology.”
You owe him what?” the ape asked.
“I’m sorry,” she continued, disregarding the big doorman. “It’s my fault, Mike. I should have told Elmo, here, that Mr. Bruck was expecting you. Mr. Bruck told me last night that he was expecting a man out to see him. But I guess I got here too late to tell Elmo.”
“You see, Elmo?” I asked.
“Nuts!” said Elmo.
“Follow me, Mike,” the girl said.
So I followed her. She led me into a broad foyer, decorated with an expert’s eye for authentic detail. The place was lush, an intimate room festooned with furniture and fixtures right out of the antique shops. It was tough to appraise the décor, because the girl ahead of me walked with a movement calculated to turn a man’s bones to marrow. She had good hips and knew what to do with them. Her long-legged stride was aimed at a small hat-check booth under the delicately curved stair way. Here she paused.
“Ever been here before, Mike?” she asked.
I was examining a tapestry draped on the wall near the stairway, a priceless slice of material featuring a galloping centaur pursuing a naked sprite through the ferns.
“He’s gaining on her,” I said.
“He’ll never grab her,” she smiled. “We have all kinds of art inside in the big room.”
“I’ve heard about it.”
“Too bad it’s locked now. Otherwise I could take you in on the dollar tour.”
She bent to phone Rico, after which she invited me to pull up a chair.
“Mr. Bruck is going to be busy for a while. You don’t mind waiting, I hope?”
“I had a date with him,” I said. “What’s holding him up?”
“It must be Mr. Gilligan, I guess. Every Wednesday, Mr. Gilligan and Mr. Bruck sort of have a business conference. Mr. Gilligan is the lawyer for this place.”
“The place needs a lawyer?” I asked. I knew the answer, but she was helping me kill time, a pleasant doll who was easy to stay with for more reasons than one. She ran through a quick breakdown of John Gilligan for me, describing him accurately and laying on heavily with the respect for his legalistic powers. I watched her mouth move, fascinated by the seductive curve of her lips, a showgirl’s smile that was automatic, but as provocative as a warm bath. She wound up her description and said, “Listen, maybe you’d like a drink of something?”
“Try me with some Scotch.”
She tried me. She came out from behind the booth and walked to a small bar at the far end of the lobby, then returned with the best brand and a glass and a mixer and some ice. She poured me a generous taste of it.
“Who do I thank for the stuff?” I asked.
“You can call me Toni.”
“One of the twins?”
“Just Toni,” she said. “Toni Kaye.”
She was friendly and warm enough to share the Scotch with me, sipping an occasional swallow while casing the doorway at the foot of the stairs.
“Rico Bruck doesn’t like the help to indulge,” she said.
“For you he should make special rules, Toni.”
“It’s a house policy,” she said seriously. I’ve been here too long to start breaking rules.”
“You’re wasting your time in a trap like this,” I commented. “What’s the future for a babe like you?”
“You’re nice, Mike. Sometimes I get sore at Rico for the way this place is run—so strict, I mean. But he gets a lot of fancy people in here all the time. And help is help, so we have to stay where we belong.” She frowned a minute. “That’s one of the reasons why I’m hoping to get out of here soon.”
“Don’t tell me Rico won’t let you mix with the rich lads who waltz in here?”
“Maybe I don’t go for those rich lads.”
“What do you go for?”
“I’ve got simple tastes,” she said.
“How simple must I get?” I asked.
She laughed it up and took another swallow from my glass. She was enjoying my company and making no bones about showing her good will. She leaned over the counter in her niche and it wasn’t easy to concentrate on her face. And around her the smell of a tantalizing perfume hung in the air and worked at my sensibilities. She became communicative about her ambitions as a singer, and I told her frankly that she could make the grade. Even without a voice.
“You’re kidding me about my voice,” she said. “But I’m serious, Mike. I’ve been wanting to sing professionally for ages.”
“Let’s have a sample.”
“Oh, not here. Not now. But one of these days I’m going to tear myself loose from this place and make a try at a singing career.”
“What will Rico say to that?”
“Say?” Her eyebrows arched and for the first time she showed me another facet of her emotional set-up. She registered scorn and disdain for Rico Bruck and his palatial loot trap. “Listen, can’t I get a job like this anywhere?”
“As a hat-check wren? But of course.”
“That’s what I mean. You see, what I want is a chance at New York, the bigtime. From what I’ve heard, you don’t need much to get this kind of a job there. One of these days I’m going to make the switch. You know anybody in New York?”
“I have a branch office there.”
“Show people, I mean.”
“Some of my best friends, baby.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Am I? Ever heard of Lawrence Keddy?”
“Lawrence Keddy, the agent?” she gushed. “That’s like asking whether I heard of Harry Truman.” She was excited now, her long and delicate hand touching mine in a gesture of friendliness, as natural as her smile. “How well do you know him?”
“He’s a pal of mine.”
“Can you get him to listen to me?”
“I can get him to take you on,” I said. “If you can sing half as well as you can smile.”
She was on fire for me when the phone buzzed and interrupted our chitchat. She answered the ring politely and told Rico Bruck that I was on my way inside. But her free hand did not lift away from mine, telegraphing her reluctance to see me leave.
I stayed. “Rico may want me to go to New York for him,” I said.
She laughed, still clutching my hand. “You’d better go upstairs now. Rico doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“If I go to New York, I may leave right away.”
“Meaning what?”
“Can’t you guess?” I asked. “I’m trying to promote free transportation for you.”
“Maybe I’d rather pay my own freight.”
“We can discuss it later,” I said.
She shook her head at me laughingly. “You certainly can sell, Mike.”
“When do you go off?”
“I’m free at about two in the morning.”
“And where do you go?”
“Home,” she said. “Where all good girls go after work.”
“Good boys visit good girls,” I suggested. “If good boys know the right address.”
“You’re twisting my arm,” Toni said. “I’ll see you on the way out, Mike.”
“Try and avoid me,” I said, and left it at that.
CHAPTER 2
The Card Club
12:42 P.M.—July 17th
There was a stout mahogany door beyond the stairs, on which a gold plate carried the name: RICO
BRUCK, etched in classic italics. I knocked discreetly, and from somewhere inside a voice shouted, “Okay, Wells,” and then I pushed the door open and walked in.
It was a tremendous room, decorated in a more business like motif, with smooth and polished paneling and the modest overtones of a business tycoon’s private chamber. Rico got up from behind his king-sized desk and greeted me with warmth and a high-pressure handshake.
He introduced me to his legal brain, John Gilligan, tall and lean and with a courtroom smile as phony as his uppers. “This,” said Rico, “is Mike Wells. Probably the best private dick in the business, John.”
“I’ve heard the name,” said Gilligan with a polite smile.
“You did a big job on the Lippy Maggee case, didn’t you?”
“I helped a little.”
“Oh, you did better than that,” Gilligan said. He waved his hand at an invisible fly, then put his hands in his pockets and rocked and rolled on his heels in an attitude reminiscent of the ape doorman. “I attended parts of that trial and it seemed to me that it was your evidence that helped convict Maggee.”
“He’s modest,” Rico said. “That’s what I like about him. How many private dicks you know who don’t jump in and grab all the credit? Mike, now, he’s different. He knows his stuff and he does his stuff, and no fancy talk and crapping around.” He paused to wink his slow wink at Gilligan. “He’ll probably get a big charge out of the crummy thing we’re about to hand him.”
Rico Bruck had the facility for projecting intimacy and an attitude of friendliness where none existed. It was part of the legend of his success in the hierarchy of crime, this phony camaraderie he could turn on with such conviction. He was a dapper character, small and slim, who carried himself with the cool poise of a successful businessman. He would have looked at home behind the manager’s desk in a department store, or at the helm of any enterprise involving personality and executive know-how. He had a sharp, eager face, long-nosed and hard in the cheeks and jowls. But it was his eyes that carried the weight of his temperament. They were blue and brilliant, the optics of-the creative ruler of empire, the eyes of authority and intellect.
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