by Lee Strauss
“Oh, it’s you,” he said as recognition dawned.
“I’m sorry,” Haley began contritely. “I should’ve asked for permission first.”
Mr. Tobin shrugged. “What did ya hope to find?”
“I wish I knew.” Haley stepped toward the man, keeping a smile on her face. “I see they didn’t arrest you.”
Mr. Tobin scoffed. “It weren’t like they didn’t try. But they had nothin’ on me. Cuz, I didn’t do anything.”
“I didn’t think you did,” Haley said, not quite truthfully. “The police are just doing their job.”
“And a damn poor one at that.”
Haley softened the muscles in her face and commiserated. “Soon it will be over.”
Mr. Tobin’s shoulders loosened, and the tightness in his face eased. “Ya, hope so.”
“I know you’re probably tired of answering questions,” Haley said, “but would you mind answering a few for me?”
“I guess so, though I’d like to know why you care?”
“The answer to that is simple, and, I admit, rather vain. I like puzzles. If you recall, I’m the assistant to the chief medical examiner. The first puzzle for me is the postmortem. I examined and weighed Mr. March’s vital organs, including the brain, which I later dissected. His stomach contents revealed that he’d eaten beef stew about an hour before coming here for tea. An autopsy often helps when it comes to determining cause and time of death and establishing other details of the victim’s health prior to his death. In this man’s case, it was quite obvious that the cause of death was a gunshot to the heart. Rather close range, I’d say, and I’m convinced, from inside this restaurant.”
Mr. Tobin stared wide-eyed at Haley’s graphic description. His freckled face had grown pale, and somehow Haley couldn’t imagine this young man pulling the trigger. However, she’d been surprised before.
Swallowing thickly, Mr. Tobin said, “Okay.”
Assuming that was his answer to her question about his answering a few for her, she dove in. “Did you know the man who dined here?”
Mr. Tobin shook his head. “No, ma’am.”
“You’re sure? He’d never patronized the Bell in Hand before?”
“Well, yeah, he’d come in. I know his name, but I don’t know him. I don’t know a lot of the people who drink, I mean eat, here. I keep to my own business if you know what I mean. It’s good for my health.”
“I know you said that Mr. March was alone in the tavern at the time of his death. There’s a witness who says he saw a second man in a trench coat come in around that time. Does that ring any bells?”
“Like I said, I didn’t see no one, but that doesn’t mean nobody came in. I could’ve been in the kitchen or storage room, or busy behind the counter here.”
“I see. Do you ever have impoverished people come in?”
“We’re no charity, ma’am. If a fella don’t have any cash, we show him the door.”
Haley pointed toward the newly replaced window. “Ever see someone hanging around across the street?”
“Ol’ Oscar? Sometimes. Why? Is he the guy who said a fella came in and shot Mr. March?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“Well, he’s crazy, ma’am. Spins yarns like no other. You can’t believe a word he says.”
8
The distance between the Daily Record and the wharves on Atlantic Avenue was only half a mile, and Johnny’s two-seater, cherry-red Packard Roadster—hardly a covert machine, Samantha thought—rumbled along State Street past the courthouse where the view of the Boston Channel opened wide.
The temperature hovered in the mid-eighties, and the reflection of the sun off the harbor was tear-inducing. Samantha opened her purse and removed a pair of sunglasses—a fantastic invention designed by a fellow named Foster from Atlantic City—and put them on.
Johnny whistled. “You look like a Hollywood film star.”
“You’re just jealous.”
Johnny chuckled as he parked his vehicle at Long Wharf. “As a matter of fact, I am. Where does a fellow go to buy a pair?”
“I got mine from Sears.”
They climbed out of the vehicle and Samantha pressed down on the bell-shaped cloche hat on her head. She’d owned the thing for years now and vowed she’d buy a newer style as soon as her ship came in. Surely, if she broke a big story, Mr. August would be willing to give her a raise.
Samantha didn’t know for certain why she and Johnny were standing on the docks, except that Mr. August had tipped Johnny off and had failed to do the same for her. She assumed that they were to follow up on the death of Mr. Marchesi, alias March, but she wasn’t about to ask Johnny.
Before long, Johnny answered her unspoken question.
“Stephen March was a fisherman,” he said. “Somebody here must know who he was.” He tipped his hat further down on his face as if to block the glare of the sun dancing on the canal. “If we’re really lucky, someone will know the guy’s darkest secrets too.”
Samantha wasn’t sure what they were supposed to do next. This was the first time, except for the murder she’d happened upon at the brothel, she’d been out on the beat investigating a news story. Again she stayed quiet and followed Johnny’s lead. He’d done this kind of thing hundreds of times, and if Samantha was anything, she was a quick learner.
Johnny pointed. “There are some hardworking fellas. Let’s start there.”
Samantha fell into step with her long-legged co-worker and nearly slipped on the slick surface of the dock. Impulsively, she grabbed on to Johnny’s arm.
“Whoa there, filly,” Johnny said with a glint in his eyes.
Samantha wanted to sock him in the nose. “It’s these darn heels,” Samantha muttered. She released her grip on Johnny and jutted her chin out. “Life is so much easier for men.”
She stared at two fellows on the dock hoisting heavy cases of who-knew-what onto the back of a truck, then as they returned to the boat, pressed dirty hands at the base of their backs with a groan.
“I wonder if those guys feel the same way?” Johnny said.
As Samantha and Johnny drew closer, the men stopped what they were doing and stared. Both workers wore overalls, blue shirts rolled up to the biceps, and flat caps on their heads. Samantha couldn’t help but notice that one of the men had a badly mangled ear.
The other one nodded his chin as Samantha and Johnny approached. Without smiling, he said, “I believe you folks are lost.”
“We’re looking for a man called March,” Johnny said.
The fellow eyed them suspiciously. “What for?”
“Do you know him or not?” Johnny pressed.
“You a cop?”
“No. We’re from the Daily Record. I’m Johnny Milwaukee, and this is Samantha Hawke.”
The dockworker eyed Samantha up and down. “Takin’ a man’s job,” he stated.
“And why not?” Samantha returned sharply. She was so sick of hearing this tired argument. “Tough times aren’t just for men.”
“You know our names,” Johnny said. “How about returning the favor?”
“Bobby Ryan.” His gaze darted back to his pal on the boat. “That’s James Boyle.”
“What are you unloading here?" Samantha asked.
Bobby Ryan squinted. “You’re sure you’re not cops?”
Johnny pulled out a wrinkled press pass from his suit pocket and flashed it. “We're not cops.”
“Not that it matters,” Bobby Ryan said. “Because we’re all on the up and up here. Just fish, you see.”
“About the guy, March,” Johnny said.
“Oh. He didn’t show up for work today, the dirty dog.”
Johnny dislodged a piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to Mr. Ryan. It was a picture of the dead man, Stefano Marchesi.
“Is this the guy?”
Grim-faced, Bobby Ryan nodded. “Son of a gun.” He pulled out a home-rolled cigarette and deftly lit it with a match.
“You
didn’t read about his death in the papers?” Samantha asked.
Two streams of smoke trailed out of the man’s nose. “Who’s got time to read?”
Samantha ignored the man’s ignorance. “How well did you know him? Were you friends?”
Johnny lowered the hammer. “Did you run rum together?”
Bobby Ryan chortled. “That’s real swell.”
“We’re not cops,” Samantha said again. She removed her sunglasses and smiled with both her mouth and her eyes. “You can remain anonymous, Mr. Ryan. We’re only looking for a story and maybe help to find the killer. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“No names?” Bobby Ryan said.
“No names. Besides prohibition is rarely enforced nowadays,” Samantha said, hoping to alleviate Mr. Ryan’s trepidation. “In fact, I predict the Eighteenth Amendment will be repealed in the near future.”
Johnny shot her a surprised look but said nothing.
Bobby Ryan flashed an amused grin. “Now that’d be bad for business.” He dropped his cigarette and squashed it with his boot. “Thing is, I don’t know what to tell you that you don’t already know. Canadian Whiskey, English Gin, and French Champagne. That’s what Americans with taste want. They’ll get it one way or another. We’re just helping out a little. ’Cept, Stev—” Bobby Ryan frowned and glanced at Samantha and Johnny as if he regretted the sentence he’d started.
“I gotta get back to work.”
“Except what, Mr. Ryan?” Samantha said. “What did Stephen March do?”
“Us runners got a code, you see. We don’t cheat each other.”
“Cheat how? How did Stephen March cheat?” Johnny said. “Money or women?”
Bobby Ryan stared hard before responding. “Both.”
Exhilarated by the fact that she was pursuing a crime story, Samantha fought the smile that threatened to overtake her face as she slid into Johnny’s car. Under no circumstances would she allow Johnny to see how thrilled she was. This kind of thing was old hat for him, and he wouldn’t waste a moment before giving her a hard time if he knew.
“My bet,” Johnny said wryly, “is poker. March cheated, took winnings he didn’t deserve and was rubbed out cuz of it.”
Keeping her tone as professional as possible, she said, “Sounds like motive to me. “
“Yup.”
“Mr. March cheated Mr. Ryan, and now he’s dead.” Samantha was feeling pretty good about their investigation so far. Wouldn’t it be something if she—they solved this case? It sure would be a feather in her cap; her first lead and the case was broken!
All they had to do was prove it.
Good thing Johnny couldn’t read her mind.
He popped her bubble by saying, “Though my contact with the police says the commissioner’s determined to write it up as a gang killing.”
“Is that how you got that photograph?” Samantha said, feeling a bit miffed. She hated how she always felt behind the curve, especially when, for a fleeting second, she’d thought she was ahead.
Johnny confirmed with a nod. “Handy fella.”
Samantha pursed her lips. The previous thrill of the chase she’d felt quickly sifted away. If she was going to play with the boys she’d need a police contact too, but how did a person go about doing that? She wasn’t about to ask Johnny, that was for sure. Maybe Max? Yes, he’d know. If only she could get him to talk to her without him dying of embarrassment. He really ought to get over his fear of women. Maybe there was a way she could help with that.
“Can I see it?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“The photograph. I want to see it.”
“It’s pretty gruesome.”
Samantha glared back hotly, and Johnny was smart enough to give her the photograph without another word.
Pinching the corner of the picture, Samantha gave it a good look. Stephen March was slumped over a booth table. A stain blossomed on the left side of a light-colored linen suit. His hat had fallen off and lay on the floor by his feet.
“He’s dead, all right,” was all she said. Admittedly, Samantha had no medical training. Dr. Higgins was sure to know more about it. She gave the photo back, and Johnny returned it to his suit pocket.
They were inching their way down Market Street by Faneuil Hall where the fishmongers weighed out the catch of the day and wrapped it in newspaper before handing the fish to hungry customers, and other salesmen hawked their wares. Samantha wondered why Johnny had chosen this route rather than taking Commerce where the traffic flowed without distraction. She was just about to ask him when he pulled his roadster to a stop along the curb. “Just running for some smokes,” he said as he climbed out. “Be a minute.”
Samantha fumed at being left to wait while Johnny ran a personal errand. She wasn’t his girlfriend, she was his co-worker, and her time was just as valuable as his. She was working out in her mind how she was going to pull a strip off him when she caught a glimpse of a familiar form browsing the markets. It was Madame Mercier. Samantha lowered her sunglasses and watched the woman from over the top of the rims. She wouldn’t have thought that the brothel mistress would do her own shopping. The madam held up an apple at the fruit stall and made a show of examining it before handing the vendor a coin.
Just then a car approached, slowing as it passed Samantha, but driving by without seeing her there. Samantha was shocked to see that it was Bobby Ryan whom they’d just left at the wharf. What was he doing here?
She chided herself. Probably just looking for a bit of lunch. His car slowed to a stop right in front of the fruit stall. His windows were already down, and he stuck his head out and whistled. Madame Mercier turned. Was Bobby Ryan actually soliciting the madam in broad daylight?
The fun didn’t end there. Madame Mercier sauntered over to Bobby Ryan, casually yet somehow sensually biting into her apple. She leaned into his window, and they started chatting.
What Samantha wouldn’t have given to be able to read lips! Had Bobby arranged to meet with her earlier? Was he reporting to her about being questioned at the wharf? Samantha’s gut was telling her that these two were somehow involved—the question was how?
Their conversation was short, and Madame Mercier smiled and wiggled her fingers as she walked away in the direction of 29 Endicott Street. Bobby Ryan took off.
A second later, Johnny jumped into the car. Samantha had all but forgotten about her indignation and immediately told Johnny what he’d missed.
He spoke with a freshly lit cigarette hanging from his lips. “Probably just a coincidence.” He smirked. “My bet is Bobby Ryan has enjoyed Madame Mercier’s company before if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” she spat. “I’m not stupid. Or naïve.”
“Okay. Calm down.” Johnny pulled his car into traffic. “No need to be so sensitive.”
Samantha huffed. Johnny could be such a cad. And darn it, he was probably right. She needed to hone her instincts if she wanted to succeed as an investigative reporter.
Johnny pulled up in front of the Daily Record and turned off the ignition.
“Hey, before we go inside,” he said, “I gotta question.”
Samantha eyed her co-worker suspiciously. “Ya?”
“Will you go out with me?”
Samantha jerked back. “What?”
“Go out with me. I know a place. A little dancing and a little ‘fishing’. It’d be fun.”
“You mean a Chinese Laundry?” Samantha knew about the illegal clubs allegedly tucked in around the city, but with Talia, she didn’t get out much.
“Yeah. They’re harmless. You’ll have fun.”
Why’d he have to ask her out? He knew she’d say no. She shook her head.
“Oh, come on. I’m not asking you to marry me,” he added slyly. “I know someone else has got that base covered.” Johnny was like a dog with a bone when he wanted something, but she had to give him credit for not exposing her secret these last five years.
He continued. “Y
ou’re too serious, Sam. Come out and take the edge off. It’ll make you a better reporter, I tell you.”
Samantha was about to politely decline until he added that last sentence.
“How so?”
“How so, what?”
“How will it make me a better reporter?”
“Oh, that’s easy. It’s a who-you-know world, doll. The more contacts you make, the more information comes your way. And you need that to write a good story.”
Johnny made a good argument. Samantha wanted to write a good story. Not just a good story, but the best story.
“Okay.”
Johnny laughed. “Hot dog! It’s a date.”
Samantha protested. “It’s not a date!”
9
Unlike the majority of the Italian community who lived in near-poverty conditions, the Marchesi family resided in a rare single-family home of mansion proportions. Having worked six years for the Massachusetts General Hospital, Haley had grown very familiar with all the city’s neighborhoods and specifically where Boston’s prestigious first families (such as the Lowells and Cabots) lived, and the wealthy Mob and Mafia families.
As Haley made her way to the front door, she had a fleeting thought that Detective Cluney would most certainly disapprove, and strongly at that, if he knew she was investigating this case on her own. It wasn’t her job. It was dangerous. She could compromise the police investigation.
She knew all this was true, and still she lifted and dropped the brass knocker lion attached to the center of the door.
Why was she doing it? Haley supposed a doctor of psychiatry would theorize that deep in her subconscious she was frustrated that neither she nor the police had found Joseph’s killer. Haley didn’t think one needed a doctorate to theorize that. Since her return to Boston, something had driven her to solve murder cases, and in all likelihood, it was that. She was frustrated. It was a pain that burned deep in her soul which only found a bit of respite when she successfully solved, or helped to solve, a case.
The respite was temporary, of course. Like a drug addict, the euphoria only lasted so long, and she needed to find another injection. Or the next case, as it were.
