The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

  “Don’t--don’t--don’t hurt me!”

  “I’m not going to hurt you!”

  O’Toole tried to knee Wolf in the groin but the man in black deflected, pressed harder against the other man.

  “Why are you running?”

  “I know too much!”

  “About what?”

  “The rubies!”

  “What rubies?”

  “The ones Harry took!”

  “Harry was a friend of mine and I’m trying to find out who killed him. Now tell me what you know.”

  “No!”

  O’Toole struggled some more but could not break Wolf’s iron grip.

  “If I wanted you dead,” Wolf said, “we wouldn’t be talking.”

  O’Toole stared at Wolf’s face and, a moment later, relaxed; so did Wolf. O’Toole slid down the wall to sit on the ground. Wolf stepped back. “What rubies?”

  O’Toole held up a hand while his breathing returned to normal. When he wasn’t gasping any longer he started talking.

  “Harry told me about some rubies he took, real expensive gems, he said. He stole ‘em from some guy, I can’t remember who, somebody who lived in a big mansion outside town. Harry went into the house and busted open the safe.”

  “Why did you think I was here to hurt you?”

  “Because I’ve been jumping at shadows ever since Harry got killed.”

  “Has anybody been following you?”

  “How could I tell? I guess if they wanted me dead, I would be, like you said.”

  Wolf frowned. The killers weren’t interested in whoever else may have known about the rubies; they were waiting for something, or somebody, to make a move, before they struck again. And Wolf had seen no sign of Frankie Riley and Malcolm Ford since the first meeting in his apartment. That meant--

  “Watch your back, Jimmy.”

  Wolf went back down the alley to his car.

  “Hey!” O’Toole called out. “What about me?”

  Wolf and Maggie sat at the table with Harry’s letters.

  “We need to sort out the ones that have those doodles on them,” he said. They began sorting.

  Presently they had the four “doodle letters” together and Wolf, with scissors, cut out the portions of each letter that contained the doodles. He worked the pieces like a jigsaw puzzle until the lines ended with the words Emerald Lake atop a drawing.

  “It’s a map,” Maggie said. She sat back in the chair, stunned. “Harry drew a map!”

  “Sure. To Emerald Lake. What’s there?”

  “The rubies. Wolf, that’s where he buried the rubies!”

  “He’s marked a spot near the shoreline. Twenty paces from the dock, looks like.”

  She said: “Let’s go dig them up!”

  Wolf said: “Not yet.”

  “But--”

  “Cages, Maggie. I still have to rattle some cages.”

  Inspector Callaway climbed the fire escape with ease, but his stomach hurt a bit as he stepped onto the roof. He paused a minute to catch his breath. The night air cooled his face. Wolf waited at the edge of the roof, smoking one of his cigars.

  “Damnit, Wolf. Why do you always--”

  “Haven’t you ever noticed,” Wolf said, “that up on a roof, nobody can spy on us?”

  Callaway frowned and thought a moment, said: “Good point. Where did you learn that trick?”

  “My past life.” Wolf grinned.

  Callaway said: “So. Rubies, huh?”

  “What did you learn?”

  “I found no information about any such thefts in the last ten years. If Harry took them prior to that, he’s sure sat on them for a long time, and I don’t think he’d need to draw a map in his prison letters. Why do that, anyway?”

  “He must have tossed the original map before he was sent away,” Wolf said, “to keep anybody from finding it while he was gone.”

  “So, whoever he took the rubies from didn’t report it.”

  “Or he took them from somebody who stole them from somebody else who never reported it and Harry lied to O’Toole about where he got them. Maybe whoever had the rubies first killed Harry.”

  “Could be,” Callaway said. “I’m sure they’ll fetch a nice stack of cash. Biff Holden would be my first suspect. He needs money. He can’t stay in that penthouse forever. With a few million bucks he can get a new name, face, whatever he wants, and start over where Chicago will never find him.”

  “What about Oscar Lane?”

  “He’s pretty well set up,” Callaway said, “but every crook wants a retirement score. He doesn’t like working for a living any more than I do.”

  “Uh-huh. And Maggie?”

  “Why am I doing your thinking for you?”

  “I like hearing you say it.” Wolf puffed on his cigar.

  “Fine. Let me throw you a curve ball. Why would she kill Harry before he dug up the stones, if that’s what she did? That’s the part that makes no sense. Do you trust her?”

  “I don’t know,” Wolf said. He turned to stare off into the night sky. “But I’ll know for sure tomorrow night.”

  Wolf spent the next day paying visits to Oscar Lane and Biff Holden. He told them about the rubies and questioned them further. Biff feigned ignorance. Oscar Lane said he knew nothing about them, that Harry must have been working solo on that score.

  Wolf returned to the hotel where he and Maggie said little to each other until the sun went down.

  “How do you know we aren’t being followed?” Maggie said.

  “We’re not.”

  “We can’t play around, Wolf.”

  “We’re not being followed,” he said. He gave the rearview a glance. “But you never know.”

  “This is nuts.”

  “Quiet now.”

  “We better find something.”

  They spoke no more as Wolf drove two hours outside the city limits to Emerald Lake. A posted sign said the lake closed at ten p.m. each night, but no gate barred their entry. Wolf eased his car onto the dirt parking area and stopped. He and Maggie exited.

  Crickets chirped and the nearby water lapped the shore. Wolf scanned for any other visitors amidst the rustling trees while he checked his Colt .45. He had Frankie’s Browning Hi-Power nine-millimeter as well.

  Maggie said: “So?”

  Wolf popped the trunk and pulled out a small shovel.

  “Let’s find the dock.”

  Wolf had redrawn Harry’s map on a single sheet of paper and shined a pen flash on the page. He turned his back to the dock and pointed the pen flash back the way they came.

  “Twenty paces,” he said.

  “Are you sure we’re at the right starting point?”

  Wolf began counting steps. His shoes sank into the soft ground. A twig snapped somewhere. Wolf continued counting and stopped a few feet from a tree. A bare patch in the bark of the tree had a jagged lightning bolt carved into it. The carving matched Harry’s tattoo.

  Maggie said: “Here?”

  He handed her the pen flash. “Hold this.”

  Wolf pushed the shovel into the dirt. After four scoops he heard a clank. The crickets, so faithful earlier, quieted to near silence as Wolf started digging around the metal box he’d struck. He tensed for action.

  “Almost there?” Maggie said.

  “Better believe it.”

  Wolf dug around the box, used the shovel blade to pry it out of the ground. He reached down, unlatched the lid, and stared at the red rubies winking in the moonlight.

  “Nice,” Wolf said.

  Another twig snapped.

  Wolf said, “Down!” and rolled into the dirt as single-shots split the night. Maggie, flat on the ground, looked wide-eyed at moving shadows in the trees.

  Wolf fired twice. He handed Maggie the Browning and told her to stay put and crawled to the tree as two shots smacked the trunk, shards of bark pelting Wolf’s face. He flinched. Shadows moved again. The gunmen were setting up a cross-fire. He could confuse that. Wolf char
ged forward, fired twice to the right, to the left, then hit the ground. His chin gouged the dirt.

  Return fire crackled overhead. Another pair of shots snapped. A man screamed. Somebody opened up with a machine pistol. The third man. The rounds chewed up the ground near Wolf. The machine pistol flashed again; Wolf fired at the flash and the shooting stopped.

  Wolf lay still, his gun trained to the left of his position. One of the shadows he’d fired at emerged from cover, started forward.

  “Frankie?” Malcolm Ford’s voice.

  The figure stepped closer. Wolf raised his aim a bit.

  “Frankie?”

  Wolf inhaled a breath, let half out, held; the figure took another step. Moonlight flashed on Malcolm Ford’s face and before he could see Wolf, the Colt automatic spoke once.

  Malcolm Ford took the round in the neck. He stood a moment, frozen, stunned, making choking sounds. Wolf fired again and the man’s head snapped back as he fell.

  Wolf stood, breathing again, and brushed the dirt from his shirt, jeans and face. He found Maggie back at the hole. She, too, was rising, but made no effort to get rid of the dirt on her clothes. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Wolf tucked the .45 into his belt. He picked up the metal box.

  “Stop.”

  Maggie said: “Behind you!”

  Wolf turned.

  “Get rid of your gun,” Biff Holden said. He stood in the open with a gun in his right hand.

  Wolf tossed the Colt in the dirt.

  “Now you, little lady.”

  The Browning dropped at Maggie’s feet.

  Another man emerged from hiding and joined Holden.

  Maggie said: “Oscar?”

  “Thanks for digging it up,” Lane said. “You probably never figured that Biff and I were working together.”

  Wolf let out a grunt.

  “Some detective,” Lane said. He smiled. “Those rubies are going to set us up just right.”

  Holden said: “We’ll give Gulino and Sanchez and Chicago a run for their money.”

  “Nice play with Mal and Frankie,” Lane said. “I’m sure if Mal found out he’d shot Frankie, he’d be crushed.”

  “And the guy with the machine pistol?” Wolf said.

  “Just another of the stooges we imported,” Holden said.

  Maggie stepped forward. “You killed Harry, Oscar? You killed your friend? He trusted you!”

  “No honor among thieves, baby.”

  Maggie charged at Oscar, screaming. She grabbed his gun arm and they wrestled on their feet. Holden moved out of the way to keep a clear shot at Wolf but in the time it took to move, Wolf had the .45 back in his hand and before Holden could fire, the .45 roared and Holden’s face vanished in a flash of red.

  Oscar shoved and Maggie stumbled and let out a cry as she landed, and Oscar raised his gun to fire, but Wolf fired first. One shot. Oscar dropped.

  Maggie, on hands and knees, was crying when Wolf reached her. He helped her up and she leaned against him.

  “It’s all right now,” Wolf said.

  Part IV

  The Fixer

  The Fixer

  There are only three rules in this city:

  Never cheat your partner,

  Never take more than your share,

  And never cross

  WOLF

  Wolf said, “This chair makes my rear end hurt.”

  Gordy O’Rourke blew cigar smoke out one side of his mouth and grinned, showing yellow teeth, from across the small corner table. “That’s the point,” he said. “Make somebody’s rear end sore and they leave and let another customer have the table which means I make money. We get guys in here on game nights who order one beer and a plate of wings and they sit for four hours watching a game, and you know what? I hope their ass is killin’ ‘em the next day because all that sittin’ cost me maybe $1000 somebody else would have spent who ordered more than one beer and a bunch more food. You can bet those clowns stiff the girls on tips, too.”

  “The seats in the casino are padded.”

  “You bet.” Gordy puffed on his cigar and sipped black coffee. “People are dropping money in the back room. You bet I want them comfortable.”

  “You’re a mercenary if there ever was one.”

  Wolf ate another bite of his bangers and mash, aka sausages and mashed potatoes. Gordy’s cook spiced the meal just right.

  Being Thursday, the place was packed. The noise covered their conversation. Gordy puffed his cigar some more. “Wolf, I’m glad you’re here.” Gordy looked down at the tip of his cigar. He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Wolf a folded note.

  Wolf pushed his plate away, opened the note, read: Remember Mona Frye.

  Gordy said: “A fat guy with a big nose brought that today.”

  “Who’s Mona Frye?”

  Gordy puffed his cigar. He signaled a passing waitress, a cute blonde with purple-streaked hair, for a refill; after she poured the coffee he said: “Somebody I used to know. She was murdered a long time ago.”

  “You?”

  “No.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Somebody shot her,” Gordy said. “I swear I blocked it out. It was twenty-five years ago.”

  “What about the guys you were running with in those days? Could one of them have sent this?”

  “I haven’t heard from those bums in ages. I don’t even know if they’re still alive, in jail, or what.”

  Gordy had worked on the fringes of organized crime most of his adult life and ran his gambling joint at the blessing of the local syndicate as long as he kicked back a percentage. He’d built a nice corner racket for himself and greased the local cops as well. Nobody ever bothered him, and he kept trouble to a minimum.

  Wolf pushed the note back across the table. He glanced at the bar as the purple-haired waitress served a bald man who averted his eyes. The bald man started eating, ignoring an iPhone that sat beside his plate.

  Wolf turned back to Gordy. “So?”

  “I hate to ask but—”

  “You think I’m going to say no?” Wolf said. “I owe you, Gordy. That’s it. I owe you.”

  It was the kind of blood debt one could never repay, but Wolf never stopped trying.

  When Wolf had needed help escaping from his former life, he reached out to Gordy, who sent his youngest son, Bobby, to lend a hand. Wolf indeed escaped but had to tell Gordy his boy had died in the process.

  Wolf reached across the table and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Go home and get rested. Wolf’s on the job.”

  “Okay.”

  Wolf scooted his chair back against the wall. The A/C blast ruffled his shirt collar. He had a clear view of the bald man who was trying very hard not to look like he was watching them. “Go get me a glass of Bushmills first.”

  Gordy, half out of his chair, frowned.

  Wolf smiled. “Trust me. And don’t worry, you still have plenty of tables.”

  An hour later Wolf followed the bald man to a home on the corner of a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. The bald man pulled his Chrysler into the garage while Wolf stopped his Cadillac at the opening of the court. Lights were on inside the house.

  Up the street Wolf spotted a second car parked curbside, near the fence that blocked the bald man’s house from the street. Wolf left his Cadillac and strolled by the dark car. Nobody inside. On his reverse pass he saw the driver’s door open a crack. He looked inside the glove box. The registration showed the name Michael O’Rourke. A brown paper bag sat on the passenger seat. Wolf took out two baggies full of pills, one obviously Vicodin, the other baggie full of what looked like amphetamines. Wolf shook his head. The kid was still on the junk.

  Wolf tootsied to the fence, listened for a dog, and hopped over. He dropped into a line of rose bushes, and thorns pricked through his sleeves. He stayed put. The quiet back yard offered further assurance of no canines prowling for intruders. From his spot he saw the kitchen and dining room through patio doors. One of the sliding glass
doors had been partially opened, and Wolf recognized one of the two voices engaged in a heated argument inside. He traded the hiding spot for the open patio door. The voice he didn’t recognize shouted, “Wait!” and two pistol shots cut him off.

  Wolf shoved through the patio door, ran from kitchen to living room and stopped short. The bald man lay on the soft carpet with two bloody holes in his chest. A young man standing over him with an automatic spun around, pointing the gun at Wolf, but his shaking hand proved he wasn’t ready for a second kill.

  “Put it down, Mike,” Wolf said.

  Michael O’Rourke, Gordy’s oldest son, gaped at Wolf. Wolf closed the gap between them in one step and twisted the gun out of Mike’s grasp. He said: “What are you doing?”

  “This punk’s been watching Dad since he got that note,” Mike said.

  “And he wouldn’t talk, right? Can’t blame you for tryin’ but you cooled a small fish. Doesn’t get us anywhere.”

  Mike stepped back his pointed jaw set tight. He had Gordy’s green eyes and his mother’s small nose. “I did--”

  “Something stupid. Get out of here and leave this to grown-ups.”

  Mike rushed past Wolf and out the patio door. Wolf heard him thud up and over the fence. The other car started, and tires screeched. Wolf shook his head. He tucked the automatic in his belt and patted the bald man’s coat pockets. He found the iPhone and pocketed it. Wolf took out a handkerchief, opened the front door, went out.

  Back in the Cadillac, he drove further up the street and pulled into the parking lot of a basketball park and let the iPhone’s glow fill the car. Wolf redialed the last number. A woman’s voice said, “What is it?” and Wolf hung up. He put the device on the passenger seat and drove away. Presently the iPhone vibrated but Wolf didn’t answer.