by Tee Morris
I was about to step back out of the closet when I caught another blast of the cologne. It was pretty strong, and had I not paused, I would have made a bad assumption that it was coming from his rumpled clothes on the floor. The scent was not coming from outside the closet, though. It was coming from my feet.
Following the dragon piss to a small section of the closet’s floor, I found tiny flecks of paint and plaster here. Looked like Benny had cut away a bit of the closet (probably not to the knowledge or the satisfaction of his landlord) and created his own secret panel—not as sophisticated as ones I was used to from my days raiding keeps and castles, but a secret panel nonetheless. Whoever was here before must have been in a hurry to miss this.
I pried the section away, revealing a frame that probably hadn’t see the light of day since this place was built. Taking a whiff of the panel in my hand, I recoiled slightly. It looked like the hand he used to slap his “signature scent” all over his face was the same hand that returned this panel back to its concealment inside the closet.
Tucked inside this hidden nook was a small journal that looked no more unassuming than a library book. I smiled as I flipped it open. Not a lot of surprises for me in here, because this book was the book—Benny’s dirty little secret that only he and I knew about.
As I’ve said before, I remember catching a glance of this little gem once when I started shadowing him, but I never knew where he hid it. This was the duality of Benny: He was clever enough to hide it completely out of plain sight, but he was stupid enough to hide it in his flop. It was these times when Benny provided me with a good laugh that I would miss the most.
On the left-hand side were the actual numbers from Capone’s racket, while along the right-hand side were his own notes on how much to skim off the top. There were also a few contact numbers jotted in the margins. I chuckled at some of his names. Most of these guys were muscle—muscle that wanted a bigger take for doing the dirty work, perhaps. No, I didn’t like Benny all that much, but I admire anyone with enough stones to swindle Scarface, and enough smarts to make friends where it mattered most. If Benny was caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he wanted to make sure he had more than enough heat to call.
Close to the end of the journal, the last few pages were dog-eared on the corners. It was clear these pages had been receiving a lot of Benny’s attention lately, because they were wrinkled from notes hastily jotted down, erased, and rewritten. At the bottom of one page, I found a note that looked fresh. When I ran my thumb across it, the lead from the pencil Benny used that morning smudged lightly. These leaves held dates and places with Pretty Boy’s name jotted off to the left, and Two Times off to the right.
Under Riletto’s, DeMayo’s, and Bennetti’s names was a list of Capone’s bagmen and runners. Some of the names—Jimmy Hill, Tommy Ross, Chuck Morris, and Luigi Morrelli—I recognized, but there were names on this list that looked hard to pronounce (and coming from a place called Acryonis, that’s saying something!). Jimmy, Tommy, Chuck, and a few others were crossed off the list. (Interesting, as I had not seen either Jimmy or Tommy for weeks.) The star by Bennetti’s name reminded me that only a few days before I got on this case, Pauley had met with an “honorable discharge” from Capone’s ranks. (Translation: Someone discharged a Roscoe against the back of his head.)
I transferred Benny’s journal to my coat pocket and glanced at the modest alarm clock still keeping time, unaware the master served would not be coming home. I’d been there for about an hour. Given the way O’Malley ran a crime scene, I was already on borrowed time.
I walked back to the main living area, and—on a hunch—placed my palm against the radio. Still warm. Yeah, whoever rifled through Benny’s place was not your run-of-the-mill dink. He was smart enough to leave the radio on for any newsbreaks. While reporters weren’t allowed near the crime scene, the local wire would have picked up enough to know that something was happening in that alleyway. And he listened to the reports, knowing if NBC announced a “gangland hit” in their alleyway, that meant the story reached their news desk anywhere from half an hour to an hour after the body was discovered.
Don’t know who you are, I thought with a grin, but you’re going to be a lot of fun to cross battle-axes with, pal!
Turning toward the door, I heard footsteps in the stairwell. Way too heavy to be that of kids coming home from school, or the lady of the hovel returning from the market. Whomever those footfalls belonged to, they were big.
Guess I’d be taking the servant’s entrance.
I quietly slipped out through the closest window and onto the fire escape. Pane was touching sill before the next round of unexpected guests could catch me beating them to Riletto’s hidden treasure.
Before I took a powder, I took out a handheld mirror I carried in my opposite coat pocket (because there are times when Mickey’s chili tries to stay with me all day in between my teeth. Not a pretty sight…) and angled it to catch a peek at who was on the third watch of Benny’s place.
Well, wasn’t that something? It was those stone-faced ogres from Sal’s ruins and Benny’s alleyway. And they were alone. Guess Chicago’s Finest were still taking their time in the alleyway. Either that, or O’Malley was still mugging it up for the cameras.
I gave Benny’s journal a reassuring pat in my one pocket, returned my mirror to the other, and quietly made my way up the fire escape. The suits were stone-faces and they were big, but they were smart enough to leave the crime scene and find their way here. I’m sure one of them would soon make for the window and check to see if anyone was waiting to get arrested, or interrogated. It was only one flight to the rooftop, so I hoisted myself up to get a more scenic look at the neighborhood. Then it was across the roof to the opposite fire escape, and a casual descent back to the Chicago streets.
Chapter Seven
Word Gets Around
“So, Mr. Baddings, what other surprises do you have for me this morning?”
My day typically started with a coffee and bear claw delivery from Mick’s. After that gourmet breakfast, I planned to stay behind my desk armed with my case notes; the personal journal I’d kept while in the Emperor’s service during the Great War of the Races; the photo I had pilfered from the museum; and a prized tome that covered two-thirds of my desk all by itself.
I had called Miranda the night before to let her know it was going to be an early start, so she was swinging by Mick’s to pick up my breakfast while I opened the office at 8 a.m. sharp. A good thing I chose to rise with the Risian icarai, too, because at 8:05, Julia Lesinger came storming into my office hotter than a brimstone she-demon, and I don’t think she was joining me for breakfast. My ass was not so much of a morning’s cup of coffee to her as it was a huge, fresh-from-the-bakery muffin that she could slowly tear apart and savor all the way into the afternoon.
“Is this how you run a private investigation, Mr. Baddings?” she continued in the same vein, slapping a copy of the Chicago Tribune on top of my notebooks. “By having your picture appearing in the city newspapers?”
Really, I couldn’t blame her for being so pissed. As I’d expected, on the front page of the morning edition was a picture of me, flanked by Chicago’s Finest, with a headline screaming:
GANGLAND THUG AND CHICAGO POLICE
COME UP SHORT
Clever. Whoever came up with that one probably got an earful of guffaws and slaps on the shoulder. If I ever find him, I’ll make sure to hand him an exclusive on how hard a dwarf can punch.
“Miss Lesinger,” I began with a heavy sigh, sitting back in my chair, “I can assure you that your name was nowhere near that crime scene. I was called in on a matter of unique circumstances for the 15th Precinct—”
“Unique!” she huffed, taking out a silver cigarette case and slipping a tobacco stick into her mouth. She was about to dig out some matches until a click from my desk caused her head to snap up. I knew the sight had to be comical, if not disarming: me standing up in my chair, holding out
a lighter and giving her the big ol’ puppy dog eyes. Nobody in Gryfennos could do the “puppies” better than me.
As she bent low to catch the flame in my outstretched hand, I caught a quick glimpse at her chest. Look, if I was being sentenced to the rack, I might as well die with a smile on my face after a quick glance at hers. Oh, yeah…definitely a good, healthy girl, that Julia Lesinger.
The resulting grin on my face quickly faded as she straightened up once more, her anger still present but far more subdued.
“Forgive me, Mr. Baddings,” she said suddenly.
Good thing I was hanging on to the desk. Otherwise, my surprise would have made me shift too sharply, sending my chair one way and me the other.
“My concern for discretion, you understand. If my father knew that I was here…”
“No need to apologize, Miss Lesinger.”
“Actually, there is.” She took a long drag from the cigarette, the scent of freshly lit tobacco lingering as she took a seat opposite my desk. “My father viewed my relationship with Tony as an embarrassment to him, the family, and his business. If he found out about my dealings with you, I might not be able to settle the final bill.”
“Disinherit you, would he?”
“First, he would disinherit me. Then you would conveniently pack your bags, go on vacation, and never come back.”
I had just gotten comfortable in my office chair when she launched that catapult of a statement on me. “Didn’t realize Daddy Dearest was so…”
“Ruthless?” she completed with a mirthless laugh. “Mr. Baddings, regardless of what image is perpetuated by the press, my family didn’t acquire its wealth or privilege through generosity. My father has carried on my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s legacy of earning money and holding on to it. If anyone threatens the Lesinger name, retribution would be so quick that Al Capone himself would wince.”
As she paused to take another puff, her eyes softened a little more. “You are a good man, Mr. Baddings. Good men are hard to come by in this day and age.”
“Good dwarves, even harder.” I smiled, giving her a wink.
The quip earned me a smile. “I can only imagine, Mr. Baddings, what was so unique about a gangland hit that would make the Chicago police feel obliged to call on your services.”
“I can tell you right now, Miss Lesinger, that after one look at that crime scene, the boys at the 15th knew they needed some outside assistance on this!”
“Well,” she replied with another smile, “Unique, indeed.”
“That’s a nice way of saying ‘too weird’ for the boys in blue. And the 15th would like to think that when it’s weird, the weirdo of the Windy City—yours truly—is behind it. It was a pleasure to disappoint them.”
Pulling myself closer to the desk, I flipped over the Tribune and linked my fingers together, staring for a moment at my pudgy digits interlocking and flexing. Since she was here, it was time to play the library card.
“Miss Lesinger, I need to ask you something that could sound like I’m digging for court gossip, so bear with me.”
“Court gossip, Mr. Baddings?” she repeated, her curiosity clearly aroused. “Sure.”
“Is there a reason why the Ryerson omits the Lesingers from its mailing list?”
“Ah, good Dr. Hammil and The Ryerson Museum.” She sighed heavily. “It all started when my father hired the doctor’s staff to research our genealogy, in the hopes of confirming his oft-repeated claims that we sprang from European nobility.”
“And Hammil couldn’t prove it?”
“He could only find mentions of the name ‘Lesinger’ in one family’s ledger…they were on staff.”
“Ouch.” I shook my head. “And from what I know of the good doctor and his lack of tact, he probably shared this with your father.”
She nodded. “Ever since then, my father has threatened harassment charges if he ever receives another invitation to a Ryerson exhibit.” She gave me a wry grin. “My father is quite good at holding grudges.”
“And his daughter?”
Miss Lesinger took another slow drag, nursing this dramatic pause for all it was worth.
“I think you’ll find out soon enough,” she finally said.
For a response, I grumbled something I wouldn’t say in polite company.
She arched a meticulously sculpted eyebrow. “My Norse is a bit rusty, but something tells me I’m better off not knowing the details.”
My head slowly turned back toward my grinning client. It was easy to forget that the Norse language of this world was close to my own Gryfennos dialect…so close that you could pick out the gist of full-out Dwarven speech if you were fluent with the Vikings’ lingo.
Guess Julia Lesinger had her own surprises for me.
“Sorry about that,” I said, feeling my face turning red under my beard. “Knew you were cultured, but didn’t know you were that cultured!”
“I have soft spots for history and mythology, and it is always a benefit when you can read legend and lore in its native tongue. To that end, I took a few linguistic courses in college,” she said while tapping her cigarette into the ashtray at the corner of my desk. “These soft spots are why, regardless of my father’s feelings, I volunteer much of my time at the Ryerson.” She sat back with her smoke delicately balanced between two fingers, the freshly exposed tip sending a serpentine wisp above her head. “So, what does the Ryerson and their falling-out with my father have to do with my case?”
“In a minute,” I stalled, tapping the face-down Tribune. “Do you know a numbers runner named Benny Riletto?”
“Benny Riletto?” Her mouth twisted in the effort to get the name out. “I had the pleasure of meeting him one night,” she replied with more than a hint of sarcasm. “He never made any overture to pay for drinks, I noticed. Tony noticed, too, but he didn’t seem to care. He told me that Benny served his purpose. That wasn’t uncommon.”
“What wasn’t uncommon?”
“Tony believed everyone had a purpose, and the ones whose purpose most benefited him, he kept close.”
Yeah, and it would make sense that a dame like Lesinger served a very important purpose to him. She was a fine-looking lady, but I’m sure the connection with the Ryerson merely topped the ice-cream sundae that was Julia Lesinger. The girl was smart, though. Did she know DeMayo had been playing her finer than a bard’s mandolin?
“It would seem, Miss Lesinger, that you made quite an impression on your ex-boyfriend. I am still trying to find out all the details, but DeMayo’s trail keeps coming back to the Ryerson. I’ve got a lot of hunches, but nothing solid to pursue…that is, unless, you’ve got something to tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Baddings. What do you mean?”
What I meant, of course, was did she know the Singing Sword had been pinched? Since she spent time at the Ryerson as an active volunteer, couldn’t she be in the know about this missing artifact?
It was a pitch I wanted to take a swing at, what with her name popping up at the scene of the crime and all. But looking into that confused gaze of hers, I had to wonder if the good Dr. Hammil was keeping his office staff in the dark on this one. It would make sense that he would want to avoid adding to Daddy Lesinger’s grudge, plus to ensure that the Lesingers’ friends didn’t catch wind of the Ryerson’s incompetence.
“I guess I’ve got a little more investigating ahead of me,” I hedged, “but now, you know what I know. The trail that eventually leads to Sal’s, where Tony DeMayo met his demise, is currently stalled in the corridors of the Ryerson. Still, it’s definitely a few steps forward…dwarf-sized as they may be.”
“It’s progress, Mr. Baddings,” she said pleasantly, slipping out a few more Franklins—a little more than half of what she had originally left for a down payment. “More progress than I anticipated. With what you’ve told me so far, I know I made the right choice in whom to trust. I wouldn’t want to start again from scratch, so please, Mr. Baddings, be more careful in the fu
ture.”
Sure, lady. “Careful” is my middle name.
A few minutes after Miss Lesinger took her leave, Miranda poked her head into my sanctuary.
“You okay, Billi?” she asked, appearing with a brown paper bag holding my breakfast. “Anything I can do for you?”
“Yeah, hon, there is,” I replied as I swapped the Tribune on my desk for my long-awaited morning’s delight. “Find a birdcage to line this with, okay?”
A little guardian angel, she is. Just making sure that everything was Jake. After glancing at the front page with an impish smile, she shut my door and fielded all phone calls. And yeah, we got a lot of them! Every ring was met with Miranda’s “I’m sorry, he’s out …” dodge, and I could only pray her voice would hold out for the day.
Thanks, O’Malley. I owe you one.
Taking a sip of my tepid coffee, I turned my attention back to the various notes in front of me, all of which somehow tied back to the Sword of Arannahs—now known to this world as the Singing Sword.
Hard to believe that a bog rat like Benny would have been involved in pinching something as powerful and dangerous as the Sword of Arannahs. He had liked the numbers racket because it was the “safest” of Capone’s businesses; in order for Benny to have gotten mixed up in this, DeMayo must’ve convinced him the coup was planned out to the last detail. (I don’t doubt it was, except for that one stray detail of DeMayo having Sal’s Diner collapse on top of him.) If only Benny had kept to his pedestrian-like ways like the good spineless goblin that he was, he would still be above ground without the charred innards.
In the final pages of Benny’s journal, now joining the mountain of resources on my desk, it looked like Pretty Boy, Benny, and Two Times were gradually covering their tracks. But why did Pauley’s name get a star and not a line through it? Had Benny known more about Pauley’s sudden demise than he had let on in the alley? If so, did Benny also have an inside on Tony? He had been as deep into this scheme as Tony and Pauley had, but when I chatted with him, he appeared to be cool and collected. “Cool” and “collected” are two words to describe anyone else in Capone’s crew, but not Benny.
