by Tee Morris
O’Malley walked me right up to Benny, putting me so close to his face that if I had puckered my lips I would have given that wop a wet sloppy right on that dirty cheek of his. Carved into Benny’s mug was a face of terror, his eyes literally bulging halfway out of their sockets, a scorched tongue reaching out of a mouth stretched open in the most unnatural of screams.
Now that I had my wits about me, I could only stare in fascination. His features appeared chiseled as if from granite. The mouth looked as if it had been torched, it and what I could see of his throat all blackened like his tongue.
I summoned up the courage to gently touch Benny’s cheek. (Yeah, it was a little weird, and I think it even shocked O’Malley. What he didn’t know was that I’d seen worse.) The visible skin made it out of this fight burn-free, but it had lost its elasticity—not from rigor mortis, but from the intense pain he must have experienced at his death. Poor Benny must have seized so hard from shock that he locked permanently into this gruesome position. The cherries on top of this grotesque banana split were a pair of swollen, bloodshot peepers staring upward at the point where his outstretched hands were frozen, fingers splayed and slightly curved, as if whatever hit him caused them to curl.
Had I not felt a twinge of pity, I would have worried. Not even a sap like Benny deserved a death like this. What the hell could have torched him like that from the inside?
I stepped back, pushing up my black fedora and stroking my beard. That was when I noticed the sunlight catching his shoes. In the trash can next to Benny were those imitation Italians, still sporting that professional shine and still on his feet.
Summoning up the courage Chicago’s Finest lacked, I took a closer look inside the other can. Whatever hit Benny had sliced him across his torso into two pieces. His feet, legs, and waist were slightly bent in this second trash can, and from the burn marks on his slacks, I could see without tipping the legs to one side that the wound was sealed: a clean, white-hot burn that cauterized as it sliced.
Benny would have been happy, at any rate. His imitation Italian loafers made it through the attack unscathed.
The little start I gave at the beginning must have given that stupid mick a hard-on. “You get your jollies for today?” I quipped at O’Malley, who still wore a smile I found far more unsettling than Benny’s current condition. “Now how about we drop the Halloween hijinks and get back on the clock, Chief, or are you ready to explain to all those public eyes around the corner how one of Capone’s runners wound up looking like an apprentice’s final test gone horribly wrong?”
The smile melted from his face. Now it was my turn to enjoy getting this dink’s goat.
“I shoulda’ known ya wouldn’ be shaken by this, ya lil’ circus freak!” O’Malley seethed. “An’ I jus’ might go on an’ slap tha cuffs on ya, due ta tha nature o’ this crime. It’s odd. An’ seein’ that yer tha las’ ta see Benny Riletto alive, Shorty, I t’ought I’d bring ya back ta tha place o’ yer deed!”
“Now that’s hardly fair, O’Malley,” I replied, feigning a severe blow to my feelings. (He couldn’t score a blow on me, even if he took a deep breath!) “What makes you think I’ve got anything to do with this?”
“This has got yer name written all over it, freak!” he shouted, causing everyone—even those mystery suits—to stop and look our way.
O’Malley took a few steps closer. The chief wasn’t “tall” as humans go, but hey, everyone’s a beanstalk to me. Only thing is, this beanstalk had a lot of his pods growing on the inside. If he took two more steps forward, I’d have disappeared under that gut of his. “I don’ like this kinda garbage in ma precinct. I don’ like dealin’ wi’ tha press!”
“You don’t like dealing with the press when you don’t have an easy answer, you mean,” I replied as I calmly produced my pipe from my coat. “Remember the last time you slapped the cuffs on one of your ‘quick deductions’?”
O’Malley’s patience was growing so thin right now that it appeared transparent. Judging from his next move, he must’ve hit a whole new level of frustration. He slapped the pipe hanging in the loose grasp of my teeth. It broke in two against a brick wall, narrowly missing some rookie taking pictures of the scene. It wasn’t a favorite pipe of mine, but pipes weren’t cheap.
“Watch yer step, Baddings, or I swear I’ll ’ave yer ass hangin’ from a flagpole!”
I could have taken a cheap shot to his jimmies, but we had too many onlookers.
“Now, talk!” he bellowed. “What d’ya know ’bout this? Y’were tha last…person…seen wi’ Riletto when’e was alive.”
“Yeah, I was having a chat with Benny. No big to-do. We were shootin’ the bull this morning. I had a couple of questions for him.”
“Oh, really? And jus’ what might y’be askin’ tha likes o’ someone like Riletto?”
“I’m not at liberty to give the gory details…and that’s a good thing, because this crime scene is gory enough. I can promise you that it wasn’t about anything illegal. If it were,” I spoke evenly, my eyes never leaving his, “I’m sure you’d have heard about it, right?”
A staring match with O’Malley could last a solid minute…maybe two if he was particularly pissed at me. I don’t know if it was a flash bulb or the day’s tension that caused him to blink, but this stare-down ended as soon as it began. His pause—not tense so much as awkward—did catch my attention, though. “When I left Benny,” I continued, “he was pickin’ lettuce and orange peels out of his greasy hair.”
“So t’ings got a littl’ rough, eh? T’rew ’im inta tha garbage, did ya?”
Yep, Chief O’Malley provided living proof that just because you got height does not guarantee you got brains to go with it.
“Hold your foot up, Chief.”
He leaned his head to one side. “What?”
“You got dungeon muck in your ears? I said, ‘hold your foot up, Chief.’ ”
O’Malley never likes it when I asked him for a favor, and a favor includes asking him something as trivial and passing as the time. Fortunately his Irish curiosity kicked in at this point, and he brought his loafer up.
Reaching into my own coat pocket where I once kept my now-broken pipe, I brought out a tiny box of matches. I struck one across his sole, tipping the stick down at an angle to allow the flame to catch and grow along its thin, wooden shaft. Before O’Malley could ask “Now jus’ what tha hell are ya doin’?”, I flicked my match at him. Instinctively, he brought his hands up to shield himself from the already-extinguished match that bounced harmlessly against the thick cuff of his coat.
“Hold that pose, Chief,” I told him before he could throttle me. “Now look at your hands. You see they’re only waist-high, right? If I had been your height or taller, your hands would have been higher up, wouldn’t they? Well now, there you go. A clue. On the house.”
“Waist-high? Yer tellin’ me—” O’Malley paused in his tirade, realizing he was still holding the silly pose. He lowered one hand while another thrust a beefy finger at me. “Yer tellin’ me tha ma hands ‘waist high’ proves y’ain’t got nothin’ ta do wi’ this?”
“Not unless I sprouted wings and took flight, or I grew ten feet only to shrink back again to a height the ladies love!” was my smug reply.
I walked around O’Malley to the top half of Benny’s body, getting a lot closer than any of these weak-stomached cops dared. “See? He held his hands up high over his head. Whatever did this came from way above him.”
“Aye,” he conceded with a curt nod, “an’ if’n a man Riletto’s height were ta drop ta his knees, as ’is bent legs insinuate, then a nipper tha likes o’ ya would tower over ’im, now wouldn’t ya?”
I took in a slight gasp, as if impressed. “Hey, Chief. Insinuate. You’ve been hitting the dictionary again, haven’t you? Can’t wait to hear you when you crack a thesaurus, you wordsmith, you!”
I could feel his glare boring into me as I turned back to Benny’s other half. “Check the pants, Chief. His k
nees never hit the ground. Whatever hit him—” I turned back to O’Malley, catching myself in my mistake. “Okay, whatever sliced him, did so quickly. He was probably about to beg for mercy, but was cut down before hitting the grovel position. I threw him into the trash, sure, but he was still in one piece when I did.”
I took a closer look at the back of Benny’s torso. “Come here and take a look at this.”
O’Malley didn’t move. A stomach that big, and it’s weak?
“Well, when you feel your lunch will allow it, take a look at Benny’s back. He’s got mud there. It matches the stains along the side of his pants leg here.” I motioned to the thick brown grime soaked into the slacks of Benny’s bottom-half, and then pointed to a large patch of mud and grime in the middle of the alleyway. “He must’ve originally landed here and here. But I left him over there,” I said, pointing out a couple of overturned garbage cans and street trash scattered around them, a good fifty feet from the crime scene.
O’Malley’s face now reached a shade similar to his hair. “Well, if’n y’ain’t a reglar Sherlock’Olmes!”
“And I’ll give you another one, Chief Watson.” Looking at both halves of Benny, I slowly shook my head. “Whoever did this is one cold soul. Benny was about to drop to his knees to beg for mercy, and our killer didn’t give a troll’s ass. At least Capone’ll hear you out before he buries a bullet in your brain. This ain’t your typical hit.”
I turned back to O’Malley with one of those grins you’d see on a dragon’s face right before making a final move on a hunting party. I knew this next one was going to get me off this mick’s hook and put yet another black mark by my name. “Oh, and one more thing: You might want to check Benny’s cheap excuse for a watch. Its face is all cracked to hell, but you’ll see it stopped at the moment he was parted like your Red Sea. Give Dr. Samuel Hammil, curator of the Ryerson, a holler. He’ll vouch for my whereabouts at that time.”
I got that feeling again—that feeling of the hair rising on the back of my neck. Slowly, deliberately, like a valley saber-tooth on the prowl, I turned to look over my shoulder. Sure enough, those square-jaws were starting up that Elvish stare-down again. Were these dinks already up for Round Two?
No, I held their attention for something other than making themselves the big tuna here. They weren’t playing the game this time, because I had caught them looking at me.
I turned back to O’Malley, who was back to his lovable, Mad-Irishman demeanor. “So, Chief, are we done here? You need my help on anything else?”
“Get out o’ here, freak!” he barked, bending down to give my shoulder a deliberate shove.
What, no good-bye kiss? That was a shame. He wasted no time to sic his uniformed escort on me, both of them eager to follow their Chief’s orders.
When I came back around the corner, the press started screaming louder. My uniformed escort decided to get a little rougher this time. And yeah, I couldn’t slight their gnome-sized brains for noodling this scenario out. They couldn’t manhandle me going to the alleyway on the chance it would make the front page. Not the best image portrayed to the public, right? But things were different now. By clearing myself with my “academic” alibi, I had granted these uniforms free reign to drag me away from the alleyway as an unwanted spectator. All bets were off, and now they could put on a little play for the newspapers, to pose for pictures of Chicago’s Finest enforcing order.
After the coppers released me with one more shove for the road, I made a quick “about face,” issuing these academy grads a silent warning about pushing me around.
That was when the flash bulbs went off. I could no longer hear any of the sweet sounds of my adopted home, like the L or the traffic passing by. I wouldn’t have heard a flock of giant mountain condors with the way those reporters were screaming, asking who I was and why I was escorted into (and hastily thrown out of) a closed-off crime scene.
I had to give O’Malley credit. It was a “win-win” for him. If he proved me guilty, I’d get ushered out in cuffs and the chief would score a redeeming front-page moment. If I provided an alibi, he’d order his ogres to roughly toss me out, providing yet another newsworthy moment for the press.
When you’re a private dick, the press is not your friend most of the time. Kind of makes the whole “private” aspect of your job a moot issue. This was exactly what I didn’t need, for now and for future jobs. O’Malley had played this card pretty well. I guess this made us even.
Giving my coat a tug and straightening my fedora, I made a beeline through the screaming sea of reporters. Some of them kept pace alongside me, still trying to get answers to their questions. I left them shouting even after I hopped into an Ace and whipped out my memo pad, intending to get what I had seen and heard out of my head and into my notes while still fresh in the noggin.
*****
The cab dropped me off a block away from Riletto’s sorry excuse for a neighborhood. For a numbers runner in the Capone organization skimming off the top as he was, you would think Benny would have tried to live a little higher on the hog. As it was, this would be a quick search, because there wasn’t much to where the “dearly departed” hung his hat.
Like I said before, when I was first shadowing Benny, I followed him home after one of his nights on the town (on the princess’ purse, naturally). I found it amazing that from where I watched him, I could easily get a guided tour of his place. One bedroom, one bathroom, a couple of closets, and an open room with a couch, a coffee table, and a radio. Hell, Benny’s place was an insult to the word “little.”
I hoped to beat the uniforms in checking out Benny’s place, and it looked like I’d done just that. No uniforms in either eye or earshot, so I knew I had some time. Not sure exactly how much, but hopefully time enough for what I needed to do.
I arrived at the apartment with my wallet of enchanted lock-picks in hand, ready to work some old-fashioned magic. Then on my first glance at his flop, I slipped the tools back into my jacket. I wouldn’t be needing them after all, because Benny’s door was wide open.
Standing just shy of the doorway, I gave the interior a few whiffs, wincing at the smell of that cheap cologne he wore that morning. I also caught hints of hair cream and the hiding place of a single bottle of Canadian whiskey. Beatrice was in my grip, but the safety was still on. No need to promise her quality time if I didn’t have company.
From the hallway, my nose continued to search for telltale signs of anyone else still in Benny’s place. With the exception of his signatures, I didn’t see, hear, or smell anyone else in the room. Swapping Beatrice for my memo pad and pen, I lightly pushed open the door with my foot, breaking the silence of this pathetic apartment with a long, steady creak.
Something I always gave Benny credit for when I had watched him from my hiding places: He liked a clean flop, and that was going to make searching his place a lot easier. When the door swung back, though, I thought some of my boys from Gryfennos had blown through here. The closet, bed, and what little furniture Benny owned had been given a thorough once-over. Someone had obviously been looking for something, not caring in the least how untidy the place got in the process. (Like Benny was going to complain about it?)
Standing in the middle of all this mess, I steeled myself for something I had been praying to the Fates I wouldn’t have to do: I had to think like Benny. I barely stomached the run-in with him this morning, and now I was going to pay homage to him by getting into his routine? As soon as I called it a day, I was going to have to take a nice, long bath!
No use complaining about it. I was on the clock, and I didn’t doubt that I’d be getting a phone call from Miss Lesinger once she saw my mug running on the front page of every newspaper in Chicago the next morning. If I wanted to give her a reason to keep me employed, I needed to find out more about the link between Benny Riletto and the Singing Sword. Seeing that two-bit hood sliced into two bits had made it clear to me that the Singing Sword was somewhere out on the mean streets of Chicago.
I needed to find that enchanted letter-opener first, and perhaps string along Miss Lesinger in the meantime. Hopefully, buying myself some more time on her family’s payroll would help me come up with a sane explanation as to why her mob boyfriend was whacked. Telling her “Anthony DeMayo pinched an enchanted sword that would have brought about the Apocalypse…” just didn’t sound credible, true as it might be.
So, on to the task at hand: stepping into Benny’s imitation loafers.
Evidently, the bed had been made before the “French Maid of Darkness” visited. The sheets and covers were pulled back, but parts of the bedclothes still remained tucked under the mattress. It was a bed big enough for one only, so whatever jollies ol’ Benny scored were not here. Dropping to one knee, I took a closer look at the bedsprings. I would have been surprised if I found something that the earlier visitor had not.
On waking up, the first thing a guy needs to do is take care of “personal issues.” Sure enough, by the can, I saw another section of Benny’s morning newspaper. Benny, it appeared, was an early riser. Either that, or he’d pulled a long night out on the town that went right up to this morning. Whichever one it was, I hope he enjoyed his last sunrise.
Upon entering the bathroom, I immediately started coughing. From its overpowering presence in the privvy, I must not have been too far off in guessing that Benny bathed in that damn dragon-piss cologne, after all.
So, he got up this morning, gave himself a shower and a splash, and then what? Off to the closet to get his suit and shoes, of course.
I was more than happy to leave the bathroom and cross the bedroom, stepping over Benny’s clothes that now littered the floor. I thought about that “shower and a splash” idea for a minute. Whenever I’d rolled Benny for information before, rarely would he stink up the air around me with his cologne. Why would he have started the day with slapping on that much scent, unless he was headed somewhere popular with the Night Life types later on? It was hardly out of the ordinary for speakeasies to enjoy the party well into the wee-small hours of the morning. So, Benny, I thought as I stared at the empty wire hangers above my head, what time were you out and about today?
