by Brian Drake
“That doesn’t tell me why you want to know this stuff. What’s the connection?”
“The woman left a day planner at the diner and in the planner is a picture of one of the gun runners from the warehouse.”
“That’s all?”
Wolf winked, turned, went out.
Wolf parked down the block and led Sheila and Kiki up the steps to the domed building of the Candy Apple. The marble front sparkled from street-light glare. A smiling doorman in a bulky red uniform and top hat pulled open the door.
The Candy Apple’s arched entryway led to a wide-open dining area with a stage and orchestra stand. A poster announced the nightly appearance of Jack Lindy’s Orchestra and Chorus Line. The show and décor gave the Candy Apple a fancy retro appeal, where guests didn’t show up in anything but formal attire. The skinny hostess led them along a red carpet, down some steps, through the maze of full tables to the spot Wolf had reserved near the stage. Bright overhead diamond-laced chandeliers lit the way.
“Crowded tonight,” Kiki said. Wolf held chairs out for her and Sheila. Sheila smiled as she sat, scooted in. Wolf sat across from Kiki with Sheila to his left. He placed the leather day planner that had belonged to Holly Mendoza on the table.
“What’s good here?” Sheila said, opening the menu.
“Everything, honey,” Kiki said. “And it’s all expensive, too.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Wolf said, opening his menu. “I brought my Visa. And my MasterCard.”
“That will cover our drinks,” Kiki said.
Wolf looked at Sheila, who wore a loose black dress with a gold sash. The sash was a bit askew because of her belly. She had been quiet during the drive over and reviewed the menu with disinterest.
Kiki said, “Think I’ll do the steak. And they better leave it bloody. I mean just cook it ‘till the cow stops mooing.” Kiki had traded her blouse and Capris for another sweater/skirt combo, no belt, with open-toed shoes.
Sheila kept her eyes down and with one finger traced the circular pattern in the soft tablecloth. Wolf rubbed her shoulder.
“Okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes sparkled with moisture. She brushed a finger under each eye. “I think I’ll have fish.”
Their waiter, short, stocky, with thick hair, glided up to the table and announced that his name was Orin. Wolf ordered a round of coffee and tea.
“Freddie and I,” Sheila said, “we could have never afforded--” she stopped. Her face paled. Wolf took her hand and squeezed. She scooted back her chair and excused herself. Wolf and Kiki watched her go.
“Poor kid.”
“She’ll be fine. She’s tough.”
“Taught in the same school as you?”
Wolf nodded.
Sheila returned a few minutes later and apologized. Kiki and Wolf told her not to worry. Wolf squeezed her hand again.
Orin returned and jotted food orders. He said the orchestra would be starting soon, pivoted on his right heel, marched off.
Sheila said, “So what’s the other thing you’re working on?”
“He won’t tell, honey,” Kiki said, extracting some papers from her purse. “But maybe this stuff will give us a clue.” She sorted the papers. “The two men at the diner”--she cocked an eyebrow at Wolf--“one of which was later murdered at the hospital, were Daniel Hoffman and Kevin Morris. Morris is the one died at the hospital.” She sipped her drink. “Both were freelance gunman from the East. Connections to the New York syndicate, but not officially part of it. Also, some connections in Chicago, but they left Chicago last year and haven’t turned up until now.”
Wolf tapped his chin with a finger and nodded.
“Does that tell you anything?”
“Not really.”
“Well, add this to the mix,” Kiki said. She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “Morris and Hoffman are part of a bigger problem. Several more East Coast gunmen have been drifting into the city for a few weeks now.”
“Who and what for?”
“I don’t know who, and Daddy doesn’t know what for. He and some of his investigators are afraid to pick anybody up for questioning in case they frighten all of them away. His team has put the word out for informants to call in if they hear something, but nothing’s come back yet. Daddy would rather round them up just before the caper, whatever it is, than get one or two and miss the big fish.”
Wolf was about to speak when the orchestra started up with a big blast of trumpets. Midway through the first number the chorus line flowed onto the stage, kicking and singing. Wolf watched a moment and wondered what spot Holly Mendoza would have occupied in the line.
“They must be tied to the gunrunners somehow.”
Wolf opened the day planner, showed her the photo of Holly and Ace.
Sheila moved her attention from one to the other as they spoke, as if she were watching a tennis match.
“Nobody’s made that connection yet,” Kiki said. “The homicide guys are still with it.” She sipped her coffee. “Who’s the girl?”
“Holly Mendoza. Somebody who used to work here. Danced in the chorus line.” He lifted the day planner. “This belonged to her.”
“So why would gun runners be importing shooting talent?”
“Because they’re doing more than smuggling guns, that’s why. I’m hoping Holly will provide some answers.”
“Is that why she’s a target? They think she’ll talk after you popped her main squeeze?”
Wolf nodded.
Sheila said, “I can’t believe the two of you. This kind of talk is normal?”
Wolf gave her half a grin; Kiki shrugged.
“Tough world, honey,” Kiki said.
Orin returned with their dinners and they ate without talking for a while.
When Orin came to clear away the dishes, Wolf stopped him and said, “We’re looking for somebody who used to work here. Holly Mendoza, a dancer, know her?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“We’ve lost touch and heard she was working here.”
“I know Holly,” Orin said. “Total babe. She’d never go out with me, no matter how many times I asked.”
“She here tonight?”
“Long gone, I’m afraid. Quit. About a week ago.”
“Know where we might find her?”
Orin said, “Try her roommate. She’s in the chorus line, too. Alice, Alice Walker. If you’re lucky you can catch her backstage after the show. She wears the golden headdress, can’t miss her.”
“Thanks, Orin,” Wolf said, tucked a five into the waiter’s shirt pocket. Orin carried the dishes away and Wolf turned to find Kiki staring at him.
“What?” he said.
“How are us girls supposed to get home?”
“Call an Uber.”
Kiki said to Sheila, “Worst boyfriend ever.”
Presently a bearded man in a tuxedo began moving from table to table, asking how people were enjoying themselves. He came to Wolf’s table, and with a slight bow said, “I’m Charles Naughton, the manager here.” His beard was all black while his temples were touched with gray. “Everything all right?”
Wolf said yes.
“Orin tells me you’re a friend of a former employee.”
“That’s right,” Wolf said.
“Holly was a great asset and we were sorry to see her go,” he said. “Give her my best if you see her.”
The bearded man kept grinning as he spoke but his eyes studied Wolf’s face like he was a figure in a Rembrandt and Wolf felt a tingle in the back of his neck that triggered an alarm in his head that made him glad he’d packed the .45.
“Of course,” Wolf said.
“If you need anything more, don’t hesitate to ask,” the bearded man said, shaking hands again, keeping up that same silly grin. He walked away with his hands limp at his sides.
Orin returned with the check and Wolf slid a trio of $50s into the leather folder. He made sure the women got into a cab, then returned to the re
staurant and drifted around the side of the stage. He slipped through a door marked Backstage, ducked behind a stack of chairs. Overhead lights lit the otherwise dark backstage hall, the shadows from the stacked chairs and other pieces of equipment provided Wolf with cover. Up ahead, the chorus line filed off to thunderous applause. The women left the stage in a single line. Alice Walker, in her towering golden headdress, brought up the rear of the line, pulling at the straps that held the headdress in place. She was slim, auburn hair tied back, the little skirt of her shimmering outfit fitting snugly over her rear.
Wolf stepped out from behind the chairs. “Alice.”
She turned, surprised, narrowing her eyes, stood still as Wolf approached. He said, “Seen Holly?”
“Get away from me.” As she turned, he grabbed her arm, turned her around. He held up Holly’s day planner.
“This belonged to Holly,” he said. “I want to return it.”
“Shut up and let me go.”
“I was at the diner when she was attacked. I helped her get away.”
Alice’s big green eyes studied Wolf’s face.
“I can’t talk now,” she said.
“When?”
“Later.”
“When later?”
“In the alley, by the stage door. Fifteen minutes.”
“Lots of doors in the alley,” Wolf said.
“The green one with the letter A on it.”
She twisted out of his grip.
Almost twenty minutes passed. Before Wolf could start stewing, the rusted metal stage door with the letter “A” on it swung out and Alice Walker stepped into the clean alley wearing a tan overcoat.
“Come on,” she said, shoes scraping as she rushed by. Wolf stole a quick glance back, but no other alley shadows moved.
At the mouth of the alley she turned right, her footsteps louder on the sidewalk, but not loud enough to overpower the rumble of evening traffic.
“Have you seen Holly?” Wolf said.
“You got a one-track mind.”
“I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
“You’re probably just another punk trying to play it smart since your buddies got blasted the other night.”
“Not true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why are you arguing with me?”
“Because I did hear from Holly,” she said. “She described you. I still don’t believe you. It could be a trick.”
“Yeah, sure, we make a habit of shooting our own guys.”
The other foot and vehicle traffic thinned out as they moved up the block, the buildings turning from bright well-maintained to dark and fading. Scattered homeless were sleeping on the ground against walls, over steaming grates, others slouched in doorways.
“You come this way all the time?”
“Can’t afford a cab.”
“They pay you in peanuts?”
“Money comes in, money goes out,” she said.
“Where’s Holly now?” Wolf said.
“Someplace safe, don’t you worry.”
Tires screeched. Wolf snapped his head around. A big car sped up the street. He reached out with his left hand and pushed at Alice’s back while his right clawed for the .45 under his left arm. From the passenger seat, a man leaned out with an Uzi and the chattering submachine gun drowned out Alice’s scream. They hit the sidewalk together and the car raced past. Wolf jumped up with his pistol in hand and triggered a blast that shattered the back window. The car screeched again as it rounded the corner and Wolf lowered his smoking auto pistol and raced to Alice.
And saw the puddle of blood spreading beneath her.
She tilted her head up, mouth opening, a half scream rushing out. Her eyes closed. She dropped her head as Wolf knelt beside her and rolled her onto her back.
She sucked air in short gasps, grabbed her purse and pulled it up onto her bloody chest. Undid the clasp with bloody fingers, tugged out a key. Wolf snatched the key. It belonged to the Palace Motel. “Key…Holly.”
“Stay calm, Alice, stay with me.”
“Key…Holly.”
Then her body relaxed, and she stopped breathing.
Sirens in the distance. Wolf tucked the key in a pocket, the .45 back under his arm. Across the street, lights had come on, gawkers popping out of windows. Wolf’s legs carried him away from there in a sprint that would have made an Olympian jealous and he didn’t stop until he’d circled the block.
He ducked into an alley to catch his breath, bending his legs in a squat next to a dumpster smelling of rotting fish. An occupied cardboard box, complete with a dirty blanket, lay across from him. Wolf took out the key and examined it in the dim light. The tag gave the address of the Palace Motel. Twenty minutes away if traffic wasn’t too heavy.
15
A single light burned in front of the Palace Motel’s main office, which faced the street. Wolf made a circle of the parking lot, noting other cars scattered about, all of which were dark and silent. Parking the 300 in the center of the lot, front toward the street, Wolf shut off the motor and cracked the window. Crickets chirped; traffic from a nearby overpass filled the air with the sound of rushing wind. He looked at the key Alice had given him. The number 4 had been stamped on the front. He left the car and stepped up to the door and slipped key into lock.
A curse caught in his throat as the door opened and a small feminine hand pushed out the snout of a snub-nosed revolver. Wolf clamped his left hand on the barrel, twisting hard, shoving the door inward, yanking the gun outward.
The woman behind the door yelped and tumbled to the floor. Wolf moved inside with one big step, kicking the door shut. He found a light switch to his left and hit the switch.
The petite brunette clad only in a black night shirt and gray shorts, dark hair half in her eyes, made a squeaking noise as she scooted across the brown carpet. She stopped when she bumped the rumpled single bed.
She didn’t scream. Her eyes still had the dark circles, but they narrowed in recognition. He snapped open the revolver’s cylinder and dumped the cartridges on the carpet. The revolver he tossed on the bed.
“Holly Mendoza, I presume,” Wolf said. She didn’t blink. “We’ve met. At the diner. Remember?”
She moved her eyes up and down his body, finally focusing on his face.
“I’m glad I caught up with you before they did.”
She rose to her feet and picked up from the bed a fuzzy pink bathrobe and tied it on.
“Now what?” she said. “If you’re here it means you talked to Alice.”
“Alice didn’t make it.” Wolf explained the shooting. Holly sat on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. He parked on the edge of the table, waiting and watching. She went to the bathroom and returned with a towel and wiped her eyes and nose. She looked at the floor.
“I want to help you, Holly.”
He couldn’t tell her he was the one who killed her boyfriend or let on that he knew the score.
She dabbed her eyes. “Alice didn’t deserve that.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“You a cop?”
“Just a concerned citizen.”
She let out a breath. “My boyfriend. He got killed working with these guys who’re selling guns.”
An engine rumbled outside; bright light flared through the curtained window. Doors opened, closed; male voices; the click-clack of weapons. Wolf drew his gun and rushed toward Holly, shouting, “Get down!” as the chatter of multiple submachine guns split the night.
Hot slugs punched violently through the wall, the window shattering, wood chips and plaster flying every which way. Holly screamed beneath Wolf. He propped up on a hand, swung the .45 at the door and fired three rapid shots. Somebody started hollering. The gunfire stopped.
“Up, up, up,” Wolf said, rising, Holly making a beeline for the bathroom. He scrambled after her. She stood by the tub breathin
g hard. He yelled for her to get the window above the tub open. The front door crashed open. Wolf leaned out and fired at the cluster of black-suited gunman carrying HK MP5s who were entering the room. The two men in front screamed, fell back; the remaining four retreated, shouting for each other to get to cover. Wolf took careful aim and fired a slug into the back of one. The gunman hit the ground hard, his weapon clattering away. Wolf wanted to race out and grab the fallen MP5 but Holly’s scream of “Let’s go!” changed his mind.
Wolf reloaded while Holly shimmied out the window. He put the gun away and grasped the windowsill and hauled through head-and-shoulders first. Gravity took over and he put his arms out to break the fall. The dirt below was soft, mixed with sharp rocks. Ahead, a wire fence. Beyond that, a darkened warehouse.
Holly stood with her knees together, hands over her mouth. Wolf took out the .45. Holly said, “I’m freezing, and I don’t have any shoes--”
“Quiet.”
He listened, but the gunfire had partially deafened him. The gunman would assume they’d escape through the window and split up to circle around the back. If Wolf and Holly went left or right, they’d bump into the shooters, but Wolf figured they might get lucky and hit the gunman forced to go solo.
Wolf held out his hand. She took it. They moved to the left, staying close to the wall.
Holly uttered sharp little gasps as they moved and fell silent once they approached an opening in the wall, the point at which this first building stopped and a second building sat at a 90 degree angle. Wolf stole a glance over his shoulder, saw nobody; facing forward, he adjusted his grip on Holly’s hand, and picked up the pace with his automatic leading the way.
Reached the corner, peeked around. Clear. A step and--
Two of the three shooters appeared at the same time. Wolf’s trigger finger acted on its own and the .45 blasted a hole through the head of the man closest. The second shuffled back. Wolf and the gunman fired at the same time. Holly screamed, her hand slipping from Wolf’s. Wolf watched the gunman’s body slam into one of the support poles of the overhang and fired a second shot into his chest.
Wolf looked back and saw Holly’s crumpled, bleeding body on the ground.
