by Dion Baia
He was in jail.
Walter grimaced in pain when he attempted to sit up, but his cranium wasn’t having it. His world began to spin. Walt put his hands to his face and felt his bruised cheek and a lump on his head. He winced from the pain, and the cut on his lip that he hadn’t known existed reopened.
It took a couple of minutes to fully gain consciousness.
Out in the hall the guard out on duty walked over to his desk and picked up the telephone receiver. “Sarge,” he said quietly into the phone. “Yeah, he’s coming around now.”
Walter swung his legs onto the floor, his arm held tight around his side to shore up his bruised ribs. His hand again found the swelling on his head and he gently probed the area with his fingers. “Jesus.”
A loud clanging startled Walter as his cell door was unlocked. In walked Sergeant Ambrosio, a well-seasoned, plain-clothed police officer in his mid-forties who came from a long line of cops. The spitting image of his father and grandfather before him, with chiseled features and short brown hair that was graying on the sides. He was followed by his younger partner, an energetic plain-clothed officer named Davies. Life on the job hadn’t burnt out the spark inside of the young man yet; he still had the drive to change the world. That drive needed just a few more years on the force for it to be brutally stamped out. That came naturally with time and age.
“Walter,” Ambrosio said with a kind smile.
The detective took his time fully sitting up. “Wha—oh, hey, Sergeant….”
Ambrosio watched him struggle to get his balance back. “What’s going on, Morris? Went on a bender last night?”
Walt’s eyes settled on the sergeant. “I feel like I have….” He smelled his shirt and jacket. “Jeez, and I smell like I did too. Where’d you find me?”
Young Davies answered that one. “In the gutter, on a side street off of Riverside Drive by the Westside Highway construction. You were soaked in gin.”
“Wow, that far out?”
Sergeant Ambrosio fished into his pocket for a smoke. “What place exactly were you putting a new coat of paint on?”
Walter checked out his pockets to see what he still had on him. “Certainly not with the fishermen way out there.” He laboriously got to his feet. “Last I knew, I was outside The Creo Room off Lexington.”
Ambrosio rolled his eyes but said with genuine concern, “Walt, what the hell you doing up at The Creo Room? That’s no place for a guy like you. What, d’ya think you’re in a Warner Brothers gangster picture?”
Walter’s wallet, notepad, and smokes were gone. “Out on a case. Must’ve done a ‘drunk dump’ on me. He didn’t miss anything. Do you by chance have my stuff?”
Ambrosio nodded. That was a relief.
“No money, though.”
Walter rolled his eyes and even that hurt. “Jesus.” It was becoming his new favorite word. He examined the rest of his face then his teeth, checking to see if any were loose.
Ambrosio continued to watch Walter with interest. “You should consider yourself real lucky. You coulda ended up in a barrel at the bottom of the Harlem River. What’s this case you’re working on?”
“Nothing I can talk about at present. Patient-doctor confidentiality, you know that.” Walter cautiously took a few steps.
“Alright, Morris, I’m not gonna lean on you, just take care of yourself. I don’t want to be finding parts of you in a train canal up in Woodlawn Heights.”
Walter grinned. “Thanks, Ambrosio.”
He followed them out. At the desk in the hall, they handed him his belongings. Davies was called over to another officer who’d just arrived, and they conversed in low tones. Walter’s wallet and his notepad containing several pages of the Caldonia Jones case had been ripped out. While Walter continued to examine his possessions, Davies finished being briefed by the uniformed officer. He walked back over to Ambrosio and whispered into his ear. It was quiet, but Walter still could make it out.
“They got another one. We gotta roll.”
“Shit,” was the Sergeant’s response.
“Work?” Walter said rhetorically, to get his mind off what was stolen.
Ambrosio nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Another victim of that Ripper, we think. You heading uptown, Walter?”
The three shared a police car uptown, sirens blaring. Even at this early hour, the streets in the city were filled with people less than happy to have to make way for the racing Plymouth police cruiser.
“You guys got any leads on this guy?” Walter asked loud enough from the back seat to be heard over the siren.
There was a slight hesitation as the officers looked at each other before contemplating whether to answer or not. Ambrosio made the decision and started the conversation rolling.
“Whoever he is, he’s smart. He goes after the fringes of society, the ones who don’t know they’re dead yet. The ones that John Q. Public won’t notice or care about, the throwaways.”
Walter understood what that meant. “Prostitutes?”
Ambrosio nodded. “A victim with no witnesses. We have no information; we can’t even identify the body half the time, except by the way she’s dressed. We surmise that they’re street-walkers.”
There was a pause in the conversation and Davies jumped in. “The only reason the public is paying any mind to it is because of the areas where the bodies are being left. Washing up on the Westside docks by the transatlantic passenger liners or left in Eastside alleyways.”
“Or by the piers where the neighborhood kids swim,” Ambrosio interjected, making eye contact with Walter through the rearview mirror.
“All young, blonde, white women,” Davies went on. “Wasn’t for that, no one would care.”
They arrived at the scene and exited the cruiser. Ambrosio finished up Davies’s point. “Sadly, in this world, there are the haves and the have-nots, and these victims are the have-nots. Plain and simple.”
Walter sighed. He could only agree. “I know that world. So sad.”
A crowd was gathering in the mouth of an alley. Even this early in the morning, a body could create a horde of gawkers.
Ambrosio glanced over at the gathering crowd. “Sorry, Walt. This is our stop.”
Walter understood. “Thanks, I can walk the rest of the way.”
Ambrosio glanced at Davies, then back to Walter. “You wanna come have a quick look? See what a different set of eyes could lend?”
Ambrosio and Davies made their way through the crowd with Walter following behind. They passed a uniformed officer who was holding back the masses. The head of his baton went into Walter’s chest. “Where d’ya think you’re going, Bojangles?”
Ambrosio abruptly walked right up to the uniformed officer, getting in his face. “He’s with us, officer.” The young cop’s sneer morphed into indignation and resentment.
Walter squeezed past and entered the crime scene while Ambrosio lingered over the beat cop, pissed and ready to crack him in the face before Davies hurried over and intervened.
Walt examined the scene before him. The harrowing remains of a gutted blonde woman lay at the end of the alley on a pile of garbage. The detectives conferred with an on-scene officer, and Davies took a knee to inspect the violence more closely.
Walter moved over to Davies. “Mind if I have a look?”
Davies glanced behind Walt’s shoulder to Ambrosio, who stepped over and nodded. The young cop looked back at the detective. “Have at it.”
Walt took a step around Davies and bent down. He noticed first that no blood was present anywhere at the scene, despite the fact she had been horrifically dissected—tissue, organs, and even bone had been removed. Walter beckoned with his finger for the two men to come closer. Ambrosio bent down, and Davies shuffled his feet closer.
“What you got for us, Mister Moto?” Ambrosio asked.
“No bloo
d.” Frowning, Walter pointed around the alley floor. “There’s no blood anywhere near or around the body, despite the massive injuries. You know what that means, number one son?” he asked Davies.
“She wasn’t killed here,” Ambrosio answered before his partner could. “Just dumped.”
“That was for him,” Walter said, gesturing toward Davies before turning back to the body. He pulled back a piece of the victim’s clothing using his pencil and whistled. “Now that’s interesting.”
That got Davies’s further attention and he moved even closer. “How’s that?”
Walter pointed to the dissected chest cavity of the victim. “Here, the insides.” Walter pointed to the grisly exposed part of the woman’s stomach. “They look to be frozen.”
Ambrosio scooted Davies aside to look closer. Walter pointed with his pencil. “See where the kidneys used to be? Doesn’t it look as if the insides are cold and almost frozen? Peculiar to see in the month of June.”
Davies whispered under his breath to Walter, “Yeah, it’s the same MO as other crime scenes.”
Walt carefully got to his feet. “Well, thanks again for the ride and look-see. I got my own case to deal with, so I’d best be on my way.”
Ambrosio also stood. “Okay, Walt. Just remember to keep this info close to your chest, my friend. I’m trusting you, Morris.”
“I know, I know, and thank you for that. Truly. Take it slow.” With that Walter turned around and headed out of the alley into the crowd.
Davies directed his gaze at his partner. “Interesting, but curious fella. He used to be a cop?”
Ambrosio shook his head. “No.”
Davies frowned. “So does he have some kind of morbid fascination or what? Aside from professional interest?”
Ambrosio thought for a moment on how to respond to his young partner’s questions. “His little brother was murdered by the pattern-killer Albert Fish back in 1927. You know the name Albert Fish?”
“Of course. The Boogey Man, Vampire of Brooklyn…he used to
eat children.”
Ambrosio gazed out in the direction Walter had disappeared, a look of revulsion on his face. “Yes, yes he did. That maniac cooked and ate Walt’s brother over the course of an entire week. Then told Walter all about it in every precise and disgusting fucking detail.”
“Shit.”
Chapter 9
HOTEL CLARIDGE
Walter shot back up to the office, washed, and quickly changed his clothes. Downstairs, two men sat parked across the street in a blue sedan. They clocked Morris as he headed out. They were large gentlemen, bruisers in matching black suits with Stetson hats. They both chain-smoked and their narrow eyes never once left the detective’s face as he crossed the road and got into his ’39 Merc.
The driver started the car and the two men waited until Walt pulled his vehicle out into the traffic. They let a car pass by before pulling away from the curb. They stayed on him as he drove downtown, keeping a safe distance so as to not be spotted.
Walter lucked out and found a parking spot a block away from Times Square near his destination, the Hotel Claridge. He was meeting with Hayden to check in and discuss his progress on the case thus far. One of Walt’s “new friends” stayed with his car, circling the block while the other chose to hike the cement trail, keeping a peripheral distance from his subject.
The receptionist at the front desk of the Claridge made a call, and once he was approved, Walter was instructed to take the private elevator at the back of the lobby up to the penthouse. An employee was already expecting Walt and opened the elevator doors for him.
During the ascent he found himself trying to pop his ears due to the change in pressure. The doors opened at the penthouse level, and Walter headed down a private hall until he came to a large and very luxurious waiting room decorated in varying shades of crimson. Steps the width of the room led down to a couch and seating area, where a young female secretary was seated behind a modern oversized and aerodynamic desk. There was a lot of hustle and bustle in the office. Walter got the impression the commotion was perhaps because the man in charge was actually gracing the workplace with his presence today. It quickly muted with the appearance of Walter. The employees scattered, disappearing into other rooms.
Hayden’s secretary waved him over toward her massive desk. “Mister Hayden will see you now.”
Walter smiled at her. She appeared even smaller up close, behind such a display of masculinity made of stone and wood, like a ventriloquist’s dummy behind an oversized dinner table.
A job is a job, he thought.
As if on cue, the wall cracked open and a door appeared where seconds before there had been nothing but wood paneling. It opened up to an enormous office that was double the size of the first room.
“Can I bring you anything to drink, some tea perhaps?” the demure secretary inquired.
“No, but thank you.”
Walt walked into the office, where couches lined the walls and matched the modern décor of the space perfectly. Toward the center of the room was a huge boardroom table and chairs. Beyond that, at the far end, was an enormous Dalbergia desk positioned in front of a wall of windows, providing an absolutely incomparable view of lower Manhattan south of Forty-Second Street. Square footage was obviously not a concern this high up in the sky.
In very dramatic fashion, Mr. Hayden swiveled his leather high-backed chair around from the window, behind the impressive desk. “Mister Morris, it’s very good to see you. Please, shut the door so we can have some privacy.”
Walter shut the door, which disappeared into the wall.
Hayden gave him a once-over and chuckled. “Have you been in a fight, Detective?”
“No, just training a little too hard down at the gym.”
“I see. So, do you have anything to report?”
“Maybe. Have you heard of a nightclub in Harlem called The Creo Room?”
Hayden didn’t even pause to consider the question before answering. “The Creo Room? I think I have not. What kind of a place is it, a dance hall or something?”
“It’s a Negro club, pretty much caters to a black-only crowd.”
“Doesn’t sound like a place I’d much want to visit,” Hayden shot back. “A darkie-exclusive club.”
Walter had learned a long time ago that in his line of work he had to leave his temper at the door and tolerate remarks which may offend or infuriate others. So unless a big bag of money was going to be the next thing coming over the horizon, Walt carried on, deciding to hit the ball back just as quick. “How about a piano player named Laszlo Strozek? White, Eastern European, he’s quite possibly German or Czech?”
Hayden paused. “Laszlo Strozek? Do I know that name…?” Hayden repeated it out loud, so he could process the words. He turned his chair back toward the window. The Empire State Building was within view and had a zeppelin docked at its antenna tower. “It does not immediately bring anyone to mind.”
“He might just be the best piano player I have ever heard. Caldonia possibly frequented this particular club, and I think this Strozek might know her. I was told she was dating a musician who might be white and foreign, a piano player to be more specific. He does fit the bill.”
Hayden cocked his head to the side. “Then the two might be one and the same?”
“Perhaps. He was pretty unconvincing when I questioned him about her, and I got the brush-off shortly afterward from the management…so I wonder if there’s something there too.”
Hayden continued to stare out of the window at the zeppelin and the city beyond.
“He was socializing with some serious-looking gentlemen. White Eastern European, I think, meeting under the club. Speaking German from what I could make out before I was…interrupted.”
Hayden looked genuinely perplexed. “At a predominantly Negro establishment?”
“Yes, that’s why I found it too disconcerting not to be connected. It could be nothing, but things got strange. Not what you’d except to see at a black-owned club. I still have to properly look into the place; maybe it’s a white-owned front, catering to the black neighborhood and music scene.”
“What of the men he was meeting? Who were they? Could they have been music agents, financial backers? Or what about fans?”
Walter shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Honestly, one looked like Frankenstein in a trench coat, and the other looked like Conrad Veidt- straight out of a Universal horror movie.”
Hayden still hadn’t bothered to make eye contact with Walter. “Laszlo Strozek…”
“You know, the bad guy opposite Bogart in All Through the Night and Casablanca?” Walt laughed, to no response from Hayden. “I’ll take that as a no?”
Hayden was deep in thought, “Laszlo Strozek…” He said the name again, this time slower. His eyes narrowed, his facial expression changing slightly, as if he had a spark of recollection.
Walter remained silent for longer than he wanted, only because he was trying to be gracious to his current employer. “You sure you never heard of him? Laszlo Strozek?”
Hayden finally met Walter’s questioning green eyes and his response was immediate. “No, no, Mister Morris. It doesn’t ring a bell.” The old man returned to his thoughts.
Chapter 10
LASZLO STROZEK
Walter crossed the faded marble floor of his office building, absently staring at the pattern the tiny tiles made below his feet. As he passed the tiny room that housed the building’s switchboard operator, a woman’s voice called out from inside the small nook.
“Hey, Walter!”
The detective stopped in the doorway and grinned at the young black-haired woman wearing a headset. “Hey, Dolores.”
She held her hand up for him to wait until she had finished transferring a call. When she inserted the phone plug into the appropriate jack, she covered her headset microphone and pushed it away from her mouth so she could talk to Walter. “Oh gosh, Walt, what happened to you?”
