The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

  The next morning, back at his place, Wolf spooned poached eggs onto dry toast, sat at his wobbly kitchen table, and clamped a foot on one of the table legs to stop the wobbling. He ate quietly. He still occupied his Tenderloin apartment. He had thought about moving permanently to the Carlton Hotel during his last adventure, but once the threat to his life had been removed, he decided against it. He looked at the yellow spot on the tiled kitchen floor that no cleaner he tried could remove. The refrigerator clanked. Home sweet home. The place had the character a pristine hotel suite would never have.

  With his mobile phone he called Gordy.

  “Michael tell you what happened last night?”

  “Yes.” Gordy spoke with a heavy quietness.

  “Give the boy a pat. He’s looking out for you.”

  “Wolf--”

  “Listen to me,” Wolf said. “You keep Mike locked in a closet if you have to because I better not bump into him again. Also, our dead friend called his boss before he left the club. A woman. He saw us talking and I’m sure they know who I am, and they’ll also know I’m not hard to find.”

  “If they come after my son for this, I’ll cut them all down, I swear.”

  “My eggs are getting cold.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you had a greater sense of urgency, Wolf.”

  “I can’t kill anybody on an empty stomach, Gordy.”

  “Well I didn’t mean--”

  Wolf hung up and finished his breakfast and then put water in a kettle.

  Wolf sat at his kitchen table with a cup of tea and the iPhone in front of him. The mobile had not rung since the night before. Whoever was on the other end knew its owner was dead, the phone now in the possession of his killer or the cops. Wolf was neither, but they didn’t know that.

  Wolf scrolled through the contacts folder, which only listed one name. Peter Chui--“Advance Man”. Fair enough. But where to find him? He wasn’t a local player.

  He looked out the window at the passing traffic and the trio of kids sitting on the steps of the neighboring building. They were playing some sort of card game. With the window closed he couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  Wolf took out his own phone, the disposable cell he used only to communicate with his police contact, Inspector John Callaway. He placed a quick call. Callaway wasn’t available for a few hours, so Wolf made an appointment, grabbed a cigar, and went outside to sit on the steps of his own building and listen to the kids next door hoot and holler as they played their game.

  The street sounds reached the roof. Rush hour. Engines rumbled and horns honked. Wolf watched the crowded street and sidewalks from his perch. He thought about his life and his choices. He didn’t often reflect on such things but working for Gordy prompted it. When Wolf had needed help, Gordy was there, and unknowingly sacrificed blood to let Wolf escape the grip of his former life. He wondered how far he’d have to go before he felt like he’d made up for the error. It wasn’t his fault that Bobby O’Rourke had moved too slowly, and his killer took advantage of a shot, but he still felt like he’d pulled the trigger himself.

  The fire escape scraped against the building and presently Inspector Callaway stepped onto the roof. He straightened his overcoat and approached Wolf with no expression.

  “Hello, my friend,” Wolf said.

  “I think I spent the morning dealing with somebody you iced,” Callaway said.

  “I haven’t iced anybody in a while.”

  “You must be going with withdrawal.”

  “But I did want to ask about a certain stiff in a certain house in a quiet neighborhood that somebody else iced last night.”

  “You know who the shooter is?” Callaway said. “Give.”

  “I don’t,” Wolf said. “I was tracking the guy and somebody else got to him first. I have his phone, though.”

  Wolf showed Callaway the iPhone and highlighted the name in the contacts list.

  “The house was rented by this Chui fellow,” Callaway said. “Chinese father, white mother. He’s with the Frye gang out of Minneapolis. What’s the connection?”

  “The Frye gang is in town and blackmailing Gordy O’Rourke.”

  “Why?”

  “Something that happened a long time ago,” Wolf said. “The phone says he’s the advance man, so he came out here to get things ready for the rest of them.”

  “The whole gang is here?”

  “I don’t know about that. Yet.”

  “The Frye gang is run by two women, Monica and Ava. They’re sisters. Their parents were gangsters, too. Mother was killed--does that have anything to do with this blackmail?”

  “Probably.”

  “What do you mean, probably?”

  “I mean that Gordy hasn’t told me everything.”

  “But you’re his pal.”

  Wolf shrugged. “I didn’t say I approved of the lack of information, but, for now, he’s holding back.”

  “So why are you working for him?”

  “Personal reasons.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Peter Chui is the only lead I have right now,” Wolf said. “I was hoping--”

  “Yeah, I know. We have an APB out for him. We’d like to ask him about the dead guy in his house.” Callaway pulled his mobile from his coat and opened a picture file. He showed the picture to Wolf. “Old mug shot,” the inspector continued, “but only a couple of years.”

  Wolf examined the face. Peter Chui wasn’t anybody who would stand out in a crowd despite the Asian/Caucasian mix. Dark hair and eyes and a gap between his front teeth. He held his mouth open during the shot, so he was probably a mouth breather.

  “Carries a pistol,” Callaway said, “and an ankle knife. I’m surprised he didn’t use an alias.”

  “Is he wanted for anything?”

  “Not lately.”

  “That’s why. Plus, they don’t expect to be here long.”

  “Do the touch and split.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “They aren’t going to stick around and try and take some territory,” Wolf said. “No way. They’ll leave when their work is done.”

  “But now you’re involved.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Be careful. Like I said, we have an APB out on Chui. Don’t cross paths with my people.”

  “Anything else I could use?”

  “One other thing, maybe,” Callaway said. “He likes gambling and hookers. Not necessarily in that order.”

  Wolf knew exactly where to go.

  Wolf parked his black Cadillac CTS half a block from a brownstone and went up the steps to the front door. He pressed the bell. A thin woman in her mid-40s with dark hair, wearing a long black dress, answered. “Hello, Wolf.” She leaned against the doorframe. “What brings you here?”

  “I need to talk to you about a client or a potential client.”

  “I don’t want any trouble, Wolf.”

  “This guy is more trouble than I’ll ever be. Let me in.”

  The woman stepped back, and Wolf entered the lobby. Rebecca Winowitz owned the brownstone which doubled as a small brothel with a poker room in the basement. It was win-win for her. Men won money playing poker and spent it on her girls. The front room looked like any other except for the antique furnishings, everything from chairs to tables to shelves at least 100 years old. Living room off to the left, hallway to the right. The girls worked on the upper floors; none of them at this time of day.

  Wolf sat in the living room on an ancient love seat and Rebecca brought out tea. She sat nearby and the fabric of her dress whispered as she crossed her legs. He showed her the picture of Peter Chui that Callaway had emailed to his phone. “Seen him?”

  Her eyebrows went up. “He’s been a regular for a few weeks.”

  “He’s Peter Chui. Advance man for a blackmail gang trying to make a score. Already he’s involved in one murder and he has answers I need.”

  Rebecca sipped her te
a. “He might be here tonight. He likes a blonde named Rita.”

  “I need to talk to her,” Wolf said. “Got any roofies around here?”

  “Now, Wolf, I run a respectable--”

  “Stop it, you’re not above rolling a guy if you get the chance.”

  “I should be offended.”

  Wolf grinned.

  “I can get you set up. He likes coffee. I can spike it and let Rita take him up to her room. He won’t make a fuss if he wakes up there later.”

  “Oh, he won’t wake up anywhere near her,” Wolf said. “Not at all.”

  Wolf sat in the corner of Rita’s room on an old wooden chair. The pad on the seat did little for his comfort, but he remained there, legs uncrossed, waiting. His .45 Colt Series 70 Government Model hung under his left arm.

  When Rita dragged the semi-conscious Peter Chui into the room, his big shoes thunked on the doorframe. She was basically lugging a 175-pound bag of cement. She was petite with short hair and olive skin and grunted with effort. Wolf jumped up and helped her. Chui struggled drunkenly as they carried him to the bed. By the time they dropped him on the bed, he had ceased movement and drool trickled from one side of his mouth.

  Rita shut the door. Wolf leaned over Chui’s face. Out cold. He sorted through the man’s coat and removed a .38-caliber Ruger revolver and an ankle knife.

  “Good enough?” Rita said.

  “Perfect.”

  “Now what?” the woman said. “You can’t use my room to beat him or whatever.”

  “Don’t worry.” Wolf hoisted Chui off the bed and over his shoulders. He marched passed the girl, out of the room and down the narrow staircase, sometimes bumping Chui’s head against the wall.

  Rebecca Winowitz waited by the front door, arms folded, frowning. She opened the door and Wolf went out into the cold night without a good-bye.

  Peter Chui snapped out of his nap as Wolf steered the CTS up a mountain road.

  “Where am I?”

  “Backseat of my car.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Wolf.”

  “Who?”

  “You wouldn’t ask that if you were from around here.”

  Chui kicked against the back doors, Wolf’s seat. Wolf said: “You’re not going anywhere, Peter.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Peter Chui.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Your name means nothing in my territory.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information.” Wolf steered through some winding turns, pulled off in a small clearing. The Cadillac’s tires kicked up a cloud of dust. Wolf exited the car, opened the back door, and stuck the .45 in Chui’s face. The other man remained flat on his back.

  “Where’s your boss?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you.”

  “You better. A .45 makes a big hole.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “You get to live.”

  “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

  “I’m sure the Frye gang is a big deal in Minnesota,” Wolf said. “But this isn’t Minnesota. We’re the big leagues here.”

  “You got nothing.”

  “I found you, didn’t I? Where’s your boss?”

  Chui started to sweat. His eyes stayed fixed on the gun in Wolf’s hand and presently he started breathing heavier. Wolf said nothing for a few moments. Finally, Chui said: “All right, don’t kill me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Got a place in a new part of town,” Chui said. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

  “Good.”

  Wolf put away his gun and slid behind the wheel. Chui started giving directions as soon as Wolf reached the city limits. It took about fifteen minutes to reach the place, a cottage off a freeway frontage road surrounded by construction sites. The sites were quiet but wooden frames and a variety of equipment hinted at the activity taking place during working hours. Wolf pulled into the driveway of the cottage. His headlights flashed on the front of the home. He stopped the car.

  “This place is empty.”

  “I know.”

  Peter Chui bolted from the back seat, his arms free, slamming a fist into the side of Wolf’s head. Wolf, stunned, tried to block the blows but could not. Chui grabbed the seatbelt and started wrapping it around Wolf’s neck.

  “You forgot about the razor blade under my watch,” Chui said, pulling the belt tight. Wolf coughed and struggled, trying to hit the man behind him, his blows ineffectual. Chui held the belt with his left hand while clutching the small razor blade in his right. Wolf saw it descend toward his face. He stabbed backward with his thumb and hit Chui in the right eye. Chui screamed, falling back. Wolf unwrapped the seatbelt and got out of the car.

  Chui jumped out, swinging the blade. Wolf dodged back. The dirt in the front yard was hard-packed and easy to move on. Chui charged again. Wolf deflected the swing and fired a fist into the other man’s solar plexus. Chui bent over, spitting air; Wolf grabbed the wrist holding the blade and twisted as hard as he could. Chui’s body rolled with the twist. Wolf kicked Chui’s legs out from under him and the other man hit the ground. Wolf batted the blade out of Chui’s hand and reached for his gun, but before he could draw Chui leapt up and crashed into Wolf’s midsection, forcing him back. The .45 flew from Wolf’s hand. They landed on the ground; Wolf’s back struck a rock. He cried out and struggled as Chui started pounding his face. Wolf shifted, blocked, tried to hit back; the pounding didn’t let up. Wolf grabbed the rock and swung his arm up, connecting with the side of Chui’s head. Chui, stunned, fell off Wolf’s body. Wolf got to his knees as Chui started to get up. Wolf swung again and hit Chui square in the side of the head. Chui’s skull caved in with a crack. The other man dropped and didn’t move.

  There was blood on the rock. Wolf tossed it. He felt for a pulse in Chui’s neck but there wasn’t any.

  Wolf scooted back and sat against one of the Cadillac’s front tires. He sat there gasping, staring at the body of his only lead which was, literally, now a dead end.

  When Wolf returned to his apartment, a fat man with a big nose met him on the sidewalk.

  The big man wore a dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie. Light from a streetlamp made one side of his face brighter than the other. No bulges showed beneath his coat other than what too many Big Macs put there. He stood at the back door of a purring stretched Lincoln and said:

  “Let’s take a ride, Mister Wolf.”

  Wolf stared at the fat man a moment, shrugged, lifted his arms. The fat man patted Wolf down and removed his Colt .45. Then the fat man opened the back door and Wolf slid across the warm leather bench seat. The fat man eased his bulk next to Wolf, grunted as he settled, told the driver to go. They went.

  A woman occupied the second bench seat across from Wolf and the fat man. The woman smiled. She wore a navy-blue suit with a short skirt; long red hair flowed down her back and shoulders. The red hair contrasted with her pale skin. With her bare legs crossed, the hem of the skirt hiked up almost too high. But Wolf didn’t drop his eyes from hers.

  He didn’t have to raise his voice in the quiet confines of the vehicle, either. Hardly any road noise seeped in. He said: “Whose little girl are you?”

  “That’s not very funny,” she said.

  “You know me, but I have no idea who you are.”

  “Call me Monica,” she said.

  “Mona Frye’s daughter, I presume?”

  “And you’re the fixer O’Rourke has asked to solve his problem.”

  “Everybody needs a friend.”

  “You’ve picked the wrong one,” she said, “but we can talk about that later. I want to talk about you, Mister Wolf.”

  “Just Wolf,” he said.

  “Fine. What happened to your face?”

  Wolf grinned.

  Monica shook her head. “Here you are, a lot of talent and experience, but where it came from, I have no idea. Now all you do is waste aw
ay in your crappy apartment, live on the fringes helping chumps, eat dinner at Gordy’s a few times a week, and play cards all night. It’s not much of a life.”

  Wolf said: “I have my reasons for everything.”

  “I could use a man like you. Come work for me. We’ll have a great time. You’ll make a ton of money.”

  “A man you can buy cannot be trusted.”

  “You don’t really know Gordy at all,” she said. “There’s a side to him I don’t think you’ll like.”

  “Everybody has a dark side. Even me.”

  She paused, then: “He hasn’t told you the whole story, has he?”

  “Tell me what you want,” Wolf said.

  Monica Frye fixed her eyes on Wolf; her mouth narrowed a bit. She said: “I want to show Gordy what it’s like to have someone taken from him.”

  “He’s already had someone taken from him.”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  Wolf kept his mouth shut. The woman watched him. The driver took them in circles. They passed his apartment a second time. Wolf and the woman spoke no more. Presently the driver pulled over in front of the apartment. Wolf turned to the fat man and held out his left hand. “My pistol, please.”

  When the fat man hesitated, the woman said: “He can have his gun.”

  The fat man returned the .45. Wolf stepped out of the car, leaned back in. He said: “No.”

  She shook her head and dismissed him with a wave. Wolf shut the door.

  Wolf watched the Lincoln drive away and fished keys from his pocket. He looked up and down the street. The late hour meant little to no traffic; he heard nor saw any vehicles coming his way. Monica had to have expected his reply; a response of her own wouldn’t be far away. She didn’t want her hands bloodied, though. He climbed into the Cadillac and placed his Colt automatic on the passenger seat. He started the car and drove off. He didn’t want a fight in front of his place. A fight would bring cops.

  He spotted the single headlight behind him right away. A motorcycle. Wolf powered down his side window and grabbed the .45. Air rushed in but he could hear a little of the motorcycle’s motor. A series of green lights allowed him to drive at the limit; when the motorcycle’s whine increased and the driver swung into the neighboring lane, Wolf braced his arms against the wheel and stomped the brakes.