The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries)

by Tee Morris

  “Kid, you don’t have to worry about ratting anyone out. You’re hiding, right?”

  “Mama told me I hadta,” he said, puffing his chest out a bit. I suppose that was his way of saying, “I’m a good boy ’cause I listen ta mama!” The truth, though, came out in his face—this poor kid was running scared. Mario was trying to act like the head rooster, but he had probably figured out he was in way over his head.

  “Word on da street was dat Riletto got taken out wit da trash,” he added, a slight tremor in his voice now.

  Got to love the street’s grapevine. Faster than a hawk flies.

  “So how long has it been since you’ve heard from any of your pals?” I asked.

  “Well, ’s been a while, but I ain’t worried ’bout it.” His chest puffed out again as he went paler. “Riletto was tellin’ me las’ time we got togeddah I was suppos’ta get outta town. Like da uddah guys did.”

  “Really? You’re the last one in town, huh?”

  “Yeah. Riletto wassa little worried when Two Times was found by th’ docks. So he called an’ lemme know I was gonna hafta take a powdah.”

  “So where were you supposed to go?”

  “Riletto was suppos’ta pick me up las’ night aftah we made da switch. He was gonna take me out t’some safe house wheah da guys were layin’ low.”

  It wasn’t like Benny had lied to him there…the other guys were laying low. You don’t get much lower than six feet under.

  “Mario, Mario, Mario,” I chided, “you’re getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, and I don’t think your mama would be too happy about that. Bad enough you’re working for Capone, but right now ain’t such a good time to be known for keeping close company with Riletto and DeMayo, either.”

  “DeMayo,” Mario huffed. He shook his head and spat. “DeMayo was just a punk wit a nice face who Riletto played for da suckah he was. Nah, Riletto had it all figyahed out. He was gonna see dis plan out wit DeMayo, whack ’em an’ whack ’em hard, den run Chicago wit me an’ da guys as his generals.”

  While this kid wasn’t dim, he didn’t strike me as creative enough to cook up a cockamamie story like this. Benny Riletto, planning a coup of his own? It didn’t make sense when I was searching his place, and it still didn’t make sense. He was the kind of dink born and bred to follow, like most goblins I had the displeasure of crossing paths with. So could Benny, as Mario was telling me, really been playing DeMayo all along?

  I took a few steps back, giving this gullible kid a little more breathing room. (With the new insight he was giving me on Benny and this case, I figured he had earned it.) My goodwill gesture was accented by that final touch of my pipe appearing from my coat pocket.

  Mario didn’t move. Finally, he was using that brain the Fates had blessed him with. He wasn’t going anywhere until I was long gone.

  “You’re a good boy, Mario,” I said, scratching a match against the bistro’s bricks and taking a few deep puffs. “Regardless of what your mama thinks.”

  He huffed again, but I held up my hand. “Look at who you’re talkin’ to, kid. It wasn’t easy growing up where I did. I did what I had to do for my family. Then, when I…lost my family and found myself on my own, I did what I had to do to survive. I’m just like you. Only shorter.”

  Feeling the full weight of that truth, I took another drag, watching Mario patiently. “Too bad you and Benny didn’t hook up so you could pass that package on to him. Can’t be safe, what with Ness and his boys raiding the warehouses.”

  “Yeah, but da Feds are avoidin’ da speakeasies right now, so I’m—”

  The poor wop froze as he grasped what I had just pulled over him. He slowly tipped his head back, lightly rapping his head again and again against the brick wall for that slip of the tongue. Between the two of us, he was going to wake up with a severe knot on the back of his noggin.

  “Which one?”

  “Cornah of 20th an’ Clarendon,” he mumbled in resignation. “Two alleyways if ya walkin’ toward 21st. Take da second one, and s’da t’ird door on ya right. Password’s ‘I’m a friend of Lou’s,’ and y’wanna ask fa Daphnie.”

  “Daphnie’s your contact?”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “If anything goes screwy, I’m suppos’ta give her a call.”

  “Good boy, Mario.” I smiled warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “So maybe you didn’t do as good as a job for Riletto as your buddies did for Bennetti, but keep your chin up. Right now, you’re better at one thing than all those dinks put together.”

  He lifted his eyes from the asphalt and looked me in the eye, mustering up a final ounce of defiance. “Oh yeah? What’s dat?”

  “Breathing.”

  I could tell Mario didn’t like the fact I was getting in the last word, but hell, what do you say after something like that? This kid just heard he was part of a regime that ended before it truly began. Just as first morning’s light slips across the moors, it dawned across his face that he was a living reminder of this scuttled plan to take down Capone. I wondered (no doubt, as he did) how much borrowed time remained.

  The bistro’s back door suddenly flew open again, making us both nearly jump out of our skins. In the door frame stood his big Italian mama with a stone-cold look that could have stopped an advancing army of trolls in its tracks…and make them run away. In one hand, she held a small cup of cappuccino.

  When I pulled out a Washington and held it out for her, she broke her stare with Mario and looked at the bill for a moment, almost forgetting why she had the cup in her hand. Finally, she took the bill and I took the cup. Even trade.

  Setting the cup gingerly on a nearby crate, I then pulled out a Jackson. A few seconds later, the kid was gaping at the twenty I had just slapped into his hand, his brain and mouth trying real hard to form a simple question.

  “Before you take a long vacation from Chicago, place that on a puppy. Any puppy you pick at any track you visit. You can’t miss.” I took a sip of the cappuccino and blinked quickly. Damn, this stuff was going to keep me awake for days. “You have no clue how Luck is your mistress right now. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  I left Big Mama and Mario in the alleyway, the coffee and the cup it was in paid for with interest. Instead of taking a cab right away, I chose to walk the Southside streets, sipping my cappuccino and digesting the latest revelations.

  *****

  As I’ve said before, Benny Riletto was the closest thing to a goblin that I’ve found in this realm. Goblins aren’t as stupid as trolls, and I’ve always given them credit for that, but they can barely lace up their own boots without someone commanding them to do so. Many times, the orders they get from their orc commanders are, “Charge ahead of us,” which they obey with weapons drawn and running full speed into ranks upon ranks of the enemy. (Yeah, not the brightest candles in the cathedrals, those goblins.)

  Benny was cut from the same cloth in that he didn’t command. He followed. Outside of his daring creativity with the numbers, he was hardly the type to develop a scheme of his own. Oh sure, the guy had dreams of being a big spender and living the lush life, but that would have meant showing some initiative. (I don’t think Benny could pronounce that word, even if he had a Webster’s in front of him.)

  Mario’s claims about Benny double-crossing Pretty Boy threw a screw loose in this machine of mine. If it’s true I’d been wrong about Benny’s waiting-for-an-order personality, I’d been wrong about Benny since I met him. I’m dwarf enough to admit when I’m wrong, but to be this wrong about someone for this long?

  Like I said before, Benny never showed guts of any kind unless it was a sure thing, and apparently there was something about the Singing Sword that told him it was a sure thing. He carefully plotted his every move in his journal—everything save for how to stick it to the guy behind the whole operation, Tony DeMayo. I kept flipping through his meticulous notes, looking for any thought he might have jotted down concerning that final hurdle, but nowhere did I come across Benny plotting Tony’s untimely
death. Still, Benny did seem to understand that anyone remotely involved with this “sure thing” eventually wound up dead. That didn’t seem to throw him. He still planned and plotted… his part of this operation, at least.

  Could Benny have been in cahoots with another party apart from DeMayo or Capone giving orders? Moran’s boys were back in the neighborhood. Their meeting at Mick’s was appearing less like a coincidence, and more like a quick bite after a meeting with Benny. Was Moran closer to the Singing Sword than Capone?

  From Benny’s notes and my friendly chat with Mario, I had only three leads left who knew anything about the Singing Sword and still had a pulse. In the past twenty-four hours, I had enjoyed dinner with the Boss and breakfast with an Italian knucklehead who was hopefully heading out for an extended weekend in the country. Guess it was time to have lunch with some dame named Daphnie.

  I sent a quick prayer to the High Warrior: Please, let that girl be alive.

  *****

  When the cab dropped me off at the corner of 20th and Clarendon, I slipped the cabbie a Jackson and told him, with just enough of an edge in my voice, “You never made this fare, and you never saw me.”

  The guy looked at the twenty in his hand and then back to me. “First dwarf I’ve never had in my cab before. I don’t see ya. I don’t know ya.”

  Chicago taxi service. Nothing beats it.

  A few minutes’ walk later, I found myself standing in the second alleyway just before 21st Street. It was high noon, not much activity happening there. No garbage men picking up the evidence from last night’s revelry. No deliveries, yet. Maybe closer to dusk, but not in broad daylight. All was quiet for now on this Midwestern front.

  The closer I got to the door of the speakeasy, the lighter Beatrice felt in my holster. That was my premonition that I was going to need her in case things got hairier than my beard. I stood at the large metal hatch for a moment, my boom dagger feeling light as a feather. I couldn’t figure out why. By now, the party would have wound down to cleaning up from the night before. If anything, I thought to myself as I gave the door a few good pounds, there’s no better time for a working-class dick like me to ask a few questions.

  I heard the metal peephole slide back, followed by a few seconds of silence, and then another quick “ssssshickt!” followed by more silence.

  Like I was surprised.

  I gave the door a couple more hard hits. On the third rap, the peephole slid open again.

  “Down here, pal,” I called up.

  Again, I heard the “ssssshickt!” (a little louder and harder this time), followed by sounds of the door being unlocked from the inside.

  One look at the guy behind the door explained why my instincts were making Beatrice float in my holster. This troll manning the hatch just stared at me for a moment. I could see those gears turning in his brain, but alas the motor just wasn’t up to Henry Ford’s specs. He probably thought (or hoped) that I was just some hallucination brought on by a bad batch of White Lightning. He went to slam the door again, but I grabbed it by the edge, and there it stopped.

  At first, he looked surprised when he found he couldn’t close the door on my chubby fingers. (No doubt, he thought I was some kind of easy mark on account of my height.) Then he looked disappointed, then just plain pissed that he couldn’t budge that door one inch with me hanging on to it.

  What a dink.

  “Don’ya got some circus t’be at, Shorty? Beat it!”

  “Now is that any way to treat a friend of Lou’s?”

  The troll broke into a gravelly laugh, but his hand was still trying to pull on the door. “You’re a friend-a Lou’s?”

  “Yeah, I’m a friend of Lou’s and Daphnie’s.”

  “Well, Lou’s gone ta bed,” he said, giving the door another tug. The door surrendered a bit, but not enough for him to close it on my fingers. Yeah, he really didn’t like me one-upping him like this. “He don’ wanna be disturbed, so take a walk, munchkin.”

  Didn’t these trolls have anything better to come back with? Come to think of it, calling this hired muscle a “troll” was an insult to trolls everywhere. Sure, trolls were pretty thick in the head, but at least they struggled to say something clever right before eating your face. These mob types never even bothered to try.

  He leaned forward, placing his head between the opening of the doorway and the door itself, his voice only audible to the alleyway rats and me. “You still heah, munchkin? I thought I told ya t’make tracks!”

  Yeah, I had to give trolls credit. Trolls weren’t as stupid as this guy.

  “I just can’t help but look at you, pal, and wonder.”

  He leaned in closer. “Wonduh what?”

  “How thick your skull is.”

  It must have slipped his mind completely that he was still pulling on the heavy metal door. When I let go, the hatch came at him faster than a saber-tooth on the hunt. The guy’s head was first knocked by the door itself, and then by the doorframe. Because both were made of thick metal, the double-rap to his temples gave him enough of a hard knock to make him sway back. Then he started coming forward again, and that was when the door, back in my control, slammed hard into his forehead, sending him back into the speakeasy and backwards over the small staircase leading to the main casino. From the hollow sound of his bald skull hitting the floor, I could tell that the carpet was way too thin to cushion the blow.

  A couple of cigarette and playing-chip girls raced past me to check on him, while ahead of me, the bartender reached under the bar to clear the stores if needed. At first sight of me, he moved away from the speakeasy’s remaining stock, reaching for what looked like a shotgun behind him. I just shook my head and gave him a little warning waggle of my plump finger, and he got the message: I just took out your muscle with a door. You sure you want to point a gun at me? I could see the bartender think about it, and then go back to cleaning glasses left over from the night before.

  I glanced over to where my door-troll fell. He was down, but not out. Anyone else would have been unconscious if hit that hard with a hatch that sturdy.

  I was impressed. That palooka’s skull was pretty thick.

  Turning around, my eyes were blessed with the sight of a sweet little thing in an outfit that would have become part of her skin if she wore it any tighter. The girl was well-endowed to begin with, but the bustier she had laced herself in now made her bosom impersonate the thick head of ale poured too quickly. It was hard not linger on her breasts as she leaned over the lip of the bottom Dutch door, trying to find out what all the hubbub was without leaving her coat check station. It was also hard not to linger because, on account of her leaning, I was eye-level with her chest.

  Damn, I love being a dwarf!

  “Daphnie?” I asked.

  The girl’s baby blues were radiant, much like the thick mane of flaxen hair falling lightly about her shoulders in ringlets. Unfortunately, the radiance didn’t make it to the inside of her head. She stared at me, maybe trying to figure out how a little guy like me could be causing so much commotion. Whatever mill was slowly grinding wheat in that head of hers, it wasn’t working hard enough! Not that I minded her hesitation…just meant I scored more time to enjoy the view.

  This sweet picture of leaning out that Dutch door, which she created so well, was soon ruined with two words: “You’re short,” spoken with a voice that could shatter freshly blown glass.

  My impulse reply would have been, “And you’re dumb, but you don’t hear me announcing your faults to the world,” but I had to think about this one. This was a girl who, every night, squeezed her slender self into this tight-fitting bar wench’s get-up, probably cutting off what little blood flow she had to her brain, and then spent said evening smiling for hours and saying “Take your hat and coat, sir?” She was paid for that shelf she called her chest and for looking good.

  Then it dawned on me. Was this girl completely snowblinded, or was she smarter than she let on? After all, her job was easy money, and prese
nted the potential of meeting Mr. Right and his robust bank account.

  Fighting my original impulse, I turned my reply around. “Actually, I’m Billi. Billi Baddings. I’m hoping you’re Daphnie.”

  At that, she straightened up and rested her hands on the Dutch door. I could tell Daphnie didn’t like the fact that this guy—this short guy—knew her name without a proper introduction made. She clearly preferred the penguins with their slicked-back hair and expensive colognes, and I didn’t have a problem with that. I did have a problem with this girlie’s attitude, which was making my job as much of a bitch as she was.

  “Look, Daphnie, I’m not going to keep you long, so long as we talk like pals and you be honest with me. Otherwise, I’m going to have to come back here at another time. Say, during your shift?”

  “You wouldn’t get past the door.”

  I looked over my shoulder to the doorman, still on the floor. I could see his arms reaching up for a makeshift ice pack the bartender threw together for him.

  I turned back to Daphnie with a wry grin. “Wouldn’t I?”

  Frowning, Daphnie opened the door for me and disappeared into her makeshift office, a tiny table with stacks of cash and an adding machine. I watched her return to her desk in the corner of the now-empty coat room, situating herself in as comfortable a manner as her snug wardrobe allowed.

  After loosing at me an extremely apprehensive look, Daphnie hiked up her already-short skirt, and I now lingered on her legs, which looked powerful. (Even the definition in her calves had definition!) With no further regard to me, she resumed tracking different tickets from the previous night’s clientele, separating from a rather healthy cash pile the pay going to numerous club employees. A lot of things went down in these keeps of bootleg booze, gambling, and just about anything else the President would prefer not to have in his beloved realm. From the look of her tips, she apparently did a bit more than check hats and coats, and was very good at it.