by Dion Baia
Small Change put down the receiver, then pressed it a couple of times to clear the line for a new connection. “Yeah, Operator?” He smiled and his voice became soothing and soulful. “Hey, Grace. Naw, I told ya baby, I can get whatever you want. Sure, even if you don’t have the ration cards. All you gotta do is let me take you out to a picture show. Sure. You can call me Rags Ragland, baby….” His smile faded and changed into a scowl. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to know you’re with Bobby the Rack now! Naw, forget I even asked! No—never mind, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Just please connect me to AC2-4444. Naw, I’m done talking, just connect me.”
City Hall was massive. An entire day could easily be spent navigating the winding corridors that led to every municipal department, bureau, agency, and organization that governed New York City. Many an afternoon Walter had found himself meandering his way around the labyrinthine hallways, going from an office the size of a bingo hall, to retrieve copies of files, only to need a treasure map to find another office the size of a broom closet for the signature or stamp needed for release. One area seldom seen by the average New Yorker was the basement of the enormous marble headquarters. Below all the hustle and bustle, half of the entire basement was dedicated to storing all the city’s records. Forms studiously filed away for future reference.
Despite the late hour, there was one lone gentleman working in between the tall stacks who felt it was a great charge placed on him by the almighty powers that be of the city of New York to comb through, read, absorb, and properly catalogue the records. Gotham’s very own bookworm, Elisha Cook, who virtually lived down there, acting as an overseer and guardian of knowledge. To him his job was never done. There was no other vocation he could imagine himself doing or that he was better suited for, and the more time he spent among the shelves, the more satisfied he was.
Smack in the middle of the never-ending file cabinets and bookcases that spanned in every direction was a large old wooden desk the size of a car, lighted only by a lone pendant hanging far down from above. It had a single bulb encased in a metal bell-shaped shade. Beyond the fixture’s circle of light were shadows and darkness.
Hunched over the enormous desk, Walter hovered over Elisha’s shoulders, trying to see while making absolutely sure he didn’t cast a shadow over the weapon Elisha examined in his small, pale, and nervous hands. The petite man wore large, thick glasses and Walter noticed that his chestnut hair was thinning on top. He was dressed in a bulky shirt that puffed out around the tight suspenders he had strapped onto his small frame, accentuating his frail and timid demeanor. Elisha’s chair was rolled over to the far end of the old desk where there was a drafting table. He looked intently through a huge magnifying lens connected to a metal armature on his head, squinting his eyes so he could read the inscription on the weapon. Elisha’s other hobby, aside from his underground dwelling, was studying firearms, old and new. If this was the person Small Change recommended he discuss theoretical firearms with, Walt knew he was in good hands.
The heavily modified Colt 1911 .45 automatic handgun looked even more sleek and impressive in the low light.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, in theory, it’s always possible, but wow. You say its full auto?”
One side of Walter’s mouth grimaced, producing a half frown, and he nodded while leaning slightly to move away from the wafts of Elisha’s Lucky Strike smoke. “Fast as a Chicago typewriter.”
“Fast as a Thompson?” Elisha studied the weapon up close. “Brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘submachine gun.’”
“You never seen anything like this before?”
Elisha’s eyes didn’t stray from the gun as he turned it over in his hands. “Well, I’ve heard of it being possible, yes, but it’s very dangerous if someone is not a skilled gunsmith. The gangsters from a decade ago had similar—” he slowed and emphasized the word, “—modifications made to out shoot G-Men and such, but never anything like this. The problem was always the reliability of the augmentation on the classic .45 caliber design while keeping accuracy and durability on the battlefield, or on the streets. I mean, what’s the point of going through all this darn trouble if the barrel is gonna heat and warp after only a couple hundred rounds are passed down through? Makes the whole contraption kind of pointless.” He chuckled at his own words. “You should see the innovations in machine gun design that are coming out of Russia to see where the future of the weapon’s capacity…and how the hell are you supposed to control this damn thing here, when you got practically a rock missile in your hand? By the time you’re on your target, you’ll be outta ammo…” Elisha said the last sentence to himself, barely audible. He trailed off into silence and continued to study the weapon, which didn’t bother Walter. He’d lost him back at G-Men.
Elisha pulled the slide back on the weapon to get a look inside the chamber. He beheld it with as much reverence a teenage boy watching a young girl’s skirt rise up her leg for the first time would have. “The sixty-four-dollar question is where’d you find it?”
“Where’d I find it?” Walter repeated, irritated by the question. “I found it on a picnic is where I found it.”
Elisha’s eyes remained focused on the weapon as he nodded with a professional understanding and let the slide click back into place. “I’ll tell you something, this is right out of Dick Tracy, down to the type of steel the barrels are made of. The muzzle suppressors so it won’t overheat.” He smiled with an unconscious satisfaction. “The forward pistol grip for control and accuracy. Wherever you got it, I can tell you one thing, it’s American-made. Not a single part is foreign. Good to see this isn’t some Kraut design on a Luger. Is this the only one?”
Walt rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled a deep sigh. “From what I saw, it was one of many.”
“Wow, I think it has to be secret government stuff. They’re the only ones who could come up with something like this and mass-produce it. See here?” Elisha pointed to the banana mag and Thompson foregrip at the front. “Doesn’t look like someone made it in their basement. This is industrial.” He put the gun down. “Would really come in handy for our boys overseas, eh?”
That was a very good point, Walter agreed. “Yeah, you wonder why our guys don’t have this…or maybe they do?”
Chapter 13
OUCH
Walt arrived back to his workplace later than usual. He was sore, and by now his entire body ached. He entered his outer office and even though the couch looked inviting, he walked by without stopping. What he really needed to do was wash up and relax a little. Maybe he should have gone straight home, but this was closer. He felt for the wall switch to his inner office and turned on the overhead light.
Two large men who had been lurking in the shadows now became fully visible. They were the same ones who had been surveilling him, Ed and his partner. Both were tall, beefy-looking men—definite bruisers. They wore black suits that were wrinkled, like they hadn’t been pressed in days.
Walter froze when he saw them out of the corner of his eye. They positioned themselves on either side of him. It was the oldest trick in the book, and Walter Morris, PI, had fallen for it. He stayed still for a second then took his hand off the light switch and held it in the air to indicate no sudden moves.
After getting an eyeful of both heavyweight contenders, Walter wished that he should have just gone straight home.
Hopefully they weren’t killers. If they were, chances were Walter would already be dead.
“Hi, fellas. You guys here to fix my noisy toilet?”
They silently observed Walter with looks that could give Superman’s X-ray vision a run for its money.
The one farther away spoke. “Hello, Mister Morris.”
Ed, who was closest, commenced patting him down, and Walt thanked his lucky stars that he was so tired because he’d forgotten his newly acquired toy and left it down in the hidden compartment o
f the Merc. The one he liked to call the “strong box,” under the driver’s seat. That spared it from being discovered. For now. Ed wasn’t using kid gloves in searching Walter either. He found the camera inside Walt’s jacket and took it from him.
“Hey now, that’s private proper—”
“Shaddup,” Ed replied. The other man still did not move nor take his eyes off Walter.
Walt was getting irritated. “Listen, guys, I’m tired. I’ve had a real shitty day, and I’m not in the mood for whatever this is. If you wanna play, please just flip the record over so we can get to the point.”
Ed finished up his search and smiled politely at Walter. “Where were you tonight?” He handed the camera over to the second man.
Walter looked closely at them, sizing them up. He didn’t think they looked like thugs for hire; their nondescript suits didn’t scream lavish or even expensive. Instead the symmetry of their identical attire indicated more salaried employees, usually found behind the desk of a government organization.
Walter attempted to play along. “Me? Where was I tonight?”
“That’s right,” said the other man with a warm smile, his face strangely radiating the same kind of pleasantness one would see coming from a neighbor who might ask to borrow a cup of sugar.
“Oh, I was out and about. Had appointments to keep. On the clock, you know how it is.”
The man leaned against the wall. “Dancing at The Creo Room?”
Walter grinned. “There’s a multitude of perks one has in my line of work.”
“So that’s your answer?” Ed asked. “Who are you working for, dick?”
“Well, you’re rather direct.” Walter smirked and turned to look at the other gentleman. “Isn’t he?”
“It’s a fair question,” the man against the wall replied. “So why don’t you do us all a favor and answer it honestly?”
“Listen,” Walt said, turning back to Ed, “thank you for dropping by tonight, fellas. I don’t know what your angle is yet. All I’m at liberty to tell you both is that I’m working on a case. Official, organizational, and union-bound business that I cannot discuss.”
“Why are you taking such an interest in Laszlo Strozek?”
Walter glanced over at Ed’s partner. “Whoa, buy me a drink first, why don’t ya? I’m easy but not that easy.”
The one against the wall was beginning to lose his patience. “Cut the shit and answer the question.”
“Why don’t you guys answer my questions? You can start by telling me who in the hell you are. This is my office you broke into. Who you mothas working for?”
Ed swung his head back and forth in disappointment and like a bolt of lightning, shot out his massive fist into the detective’s gut.
Walter doubled over in pain; the wind knocked out of him for the third time in as many days.
Yep, he thought, these guys are definitely professionals. Walt saw the second man still over against the wall. He opened up the camera, exposing the undeveloped film, and started pulling it out, destroyed it.
Walter mustered up what energy he could to protest. “C’mon! You can’t do that! Jesus.”
Ed, who could easily pass as a professional boxer at the Garden, crouched down and peered directly into Walter’s grimacing face. “Listen, Dumbo. We ain’t playing. Where were you tonight?”
Walt let out a heavy sigh, as if he was about to give in and reveal a top secret to his two new friends. “I was eating at the Automat down on Forty-Second Street. You know the one, they got the new pudding flavors at that location only?”
The other man let the exposed film drop to the floor, slammed the camera shut, and tossed it back to his partner who didn’t need take his eyes off Walter to catch it.
Yeah, these guys were pros. Ed grinned when his partner snapped the camera in half like it was a toy, his jaw muscles flexing as he crumbled the camera like an empty cigar box and tossed it over his shoulder.
The man against the wall spoke. “Who are you working for?”
Walt cocked his head slightly to one side. “You’re rather to the point.”
“One more time- Why are you taking such in interest in the German piano player Strozek? We’re not stupid, Mister Morris.”
Walter raised his brows innocently, “Laszlo who?”
The fellow in the back sneered. “Don’t play games with us, Morris. We’ve seen you tailing him, and they don’t seem to like you very much at The Creo Room. What’s your angle?”
“Well, first off, I wanna thank you for all your moral support, fellas.”
“That’s all you got?” Ed angrily shot back. “That’s all you got, you little shit? A punchline for everything?”
“Who are you,” said the one near the wall, “Amos Jones?”
“I was waiting to see how long it would take you to start calling me boy, shine, or something else. You gonna have me sing ‘Old Man River’ next?”
That seriously infuriated Ed. He dropped the forced smile from his face and pointed a stumpy finger toward the detective. “Of all the cotton-picking nerve—where do you get off accusing us of something like that?! We wholeheartedly support the Negro cause, and don’t you ever say different, goddamn you!”
Walter was taken aback and looked dumbfounded at Ed, who was inches away from his face and ready to bite his nose off. Before he had time to formulate an intelligent response, the man in the back got testy as well.
“Morris! I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but whatever petty bullshit marital spat you might be investigating, it probably doesn’t compare to real life. So why not level with us and do your part to defend your country, okay?”
“What’s next? You gonna strongarm me into buying war bonds?”
Ed turned his head and shot his partner a look of impending rage. The other man answered with a nod.
Ed gripped Walt by the throat and with one arm, stood back up, lifting Walter as he rose. He slammed Walt against the office door, holding him so high he could feel the draft from the open transom. Ed pointed a finger in the private detective’s face. “Listen to me, you little fink, I’m done giving you the benefit of the doubt, so let me give you a heartfelt word of advice. Stay away from Laszlo Strozek. Do you understand? You don’t go near him, you don’t talk to him. Got us? Don’t interfere with shit that’s none of your business.”
A slight sigh was Walt’s only reply, and he calmly stared down at the thug who had him suspended in the midair. There was a pause while they waited for Walter to say something, and when their patience ran out, Ed curled his hand up into a fist and punched Walter hard in the gut. He let go and Walter fell the three feet down to the floor where Ed then decided to give him a sharp kick in his side.
“Ed, enough!” said his partner.
Ed took a step back. Walter coughed and stayed curled up in the fetal position. “That’s right, Ed. This tough guy thing really isn’t you, my man.”
The other man sprang into action and in two large strides was bent over Walter. He grabbed him by the collar and spat down at him, “Listen and listen good! If we find out that you’re still tailing Laszlo Strozek and sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’re gonna end up behind a tin cup outside the Hippodrome, and that’s a promise.”
He let Walter go with a hand shove.
“You know,” Walter said, holding his stomach and struggling to breathe, “if you bums came in here and asked properly instead of coming across like two of assholes, maybe we could have exchanged some information. They obviously don’t let you G-men out enough to learn how to communicate.”
Ed looked at his partner. “Oh please, let me?”
His partner stepped back and grinned. “Be my guest.”
Ed bent down and punched him hard one last time, and Walter’s world once again went black.
Chapter 14
GROWING A TAIL
>
Once he eventually came around, Walter had a splitting headache and scratches on top of his already-bruised face. Oddly enough, the room hadn’t been ransacked, but when he checked his breast pocket, he realized his notepad was gone. He scanned the office and found it over by the corner of his desk. None of the pages were missing. However, he quickly surmised that the men were had read everything he had written down.
He propped himself up over the tiny sink in the corner of his office, letting the water run cold. He examined his sore face in the mirror and groaned in pain when his hands explored his stomach and sides, realizing as he bent down to splash water over his face that he might have a bruised rib.
He picked up the iodine. “Well,” he said out loud, “Looks like I gotta have a nice long chat with Laszlo Strozek.”
Walter left his building and headed down the street. Behind him, about a half a block away and on cue, a man exited out of the passenger side of a parked DeSoto sedan and began to follow, mixing in with the other pedestrian traffic. Walter didn’t notice him.
They both continued down the street and Walter turned the corner onto Park Avenue heading toward the elevated train. He walked through a small crowd toward a newsstand. His tail hung back and tried to blend in.
Walt reached the newsstand and dug into his pocket for some money. “What’dya say, Squirt?”
“Hey Walter, how they hangin’?” replied the elderly man inside the wooden newsstand. His name was Vincent Tellasna, but his friends called him Squirt.
“To the left, Squirt, always to the left.” Walter placed his change down on the counter, his eyes scanning over the many front page headlines exclaiming, THE PROGRESS OF THE ALLIED FORCES PUSH INTO BERLIN displayed for sale on the many strings below the tiny window. Without being asked, Squirt put down Walter’s usual pack of Lucky Strikes. The newsman noticed Walt’s shadow then; he was lingering awkwardly and trying to look busy, while at the same time keeping an eye on his mark. He stuck out like a sore thumb.
