by Graham Marks
“But Mr. Cavallo…”
“You think about it, Gino. Overnight. Ricco’ll be back tomorrow.”
Trey, who’d been concentrating on listening to the conversation, and keeping an ear out for anyone else in search of the washroom, heard the scrape of leather soles on floorboards and realized, too late, that he should make a move, and pronto. Caught like a cockroach in the middle of the kitchen floor when the light was turned on, Trey found himself looking for somewhere dark to hide, while in front of him appeared the smaller of the two men who’d come into the diner – Mr. Cavallo he presumed. Behind him came the bigger one, Ricco. He couldn’t see Gino.
“Who’re you, kid?” Mr. Cavallo snapped his fingers. “Gino, who’s this kid?”
Gino’s head came into view in the gap between Ricco and the wall. “A customer. He’s a customer.”
“What you doing here, customer? What?”
“I, um…the washroom?” Trey looked left and right, shrugging, with his palms up.
“You must be stupid, or something.” Mr. Cavallo jerked a stumpy thumb at the door with the really quite large Toilette sign on it. “As you don’t sound to me like you just got off no boat.”
“Me? No, but I, um…” Trey felt as if his brain was spinning like a tyre on an icy road as he tried to think of some sort of legit excuse for what he was doing there, “…I have, you know, a real bad case of myopia.”
“You have a what?” Mr. Cavallo jerked back, like he’d been pushed, a shocked expression on his jowly face. “Is that catching? I’m sure I heard that was catching – Gino, you let people with diseases in here? There should be a law against doing that!”
“I’m short-sighted…” Trey screwed his eyes up in an exaggerated squint, just to make sure the message got through. “I left my glasses behind.”
“Why’n’t you say so inna first place…” Mr. Cavallo patted his chest and took a deep breath. “I can feel my heart thumping nineteen to the dozen, all over the damn place.”
“Everything all right?” Mr. Pisbo came right up behind Trey and put a hand on his shoulder. “Wondered where you could’ve gotten to.”
“This your boy?” Mr. Cavallo eyeballed Trey like he was something that’d just crawled out of a drain – one which, personally, he wouldn’t touch with a long pole.
“With me, not of me.”
“Whatever…kids that’re half-blind with some condition shouldn’t be let to wander around.”
Mr. Cavallo, followed by a frowning Ricco, moved swiftly past them, hurrying down the passage and round the corner, leaving Trey and Mr. Pisbo looking at Gino.
“Friends of yours, Gino?”
Gino stood up a bit straighter and smoothed down his white apron; he looked at Mr. Pisbo, a “what-can-we-do?” expression on his lined face, and said nothing.
“I can help, just ask, right?”
Gino nodded. “Sure.”
Mr. Pisbo ushered Trey in front and scooted him back towards the restaurant, leaving Gino alone with his thoughts. “What the heck were you up to back there, young man?” He leaned forward and hissed in Trey’s ear. “Do you know who that was?”
“I…”
“For your information, that was Lucca Cavallo, and you do not ever go sneaking up on Lucca Cavallo. Or anyone else from his side of the street, come to that.”
Trey sat back down, red-faced and aware that Velma was enjoying the fact that the spotlight was, for the moment, off her. “But…”
“And what was that stuff about you being blind?”
“Oh, that…well, I told them I was very short-sighted, which was why I couldn’t find the washroom. Except what I said was that I had a bad case of myopia, which Mr. Cavallo took to mean I was sick with something.”
“That why he was looking at you strange?”
“Yeah.”
“Quick thinking…but lucky.”
Why’s that, Dad?” Velma, it seemed, was not ready to let Trey off the hook just yet.
“Because, if Cavallo figured he was being eavesdropped on he’d have been one unhappy capo.” Mr. Pisbo sat back to let a waiter put a steaming plate of lasagne in front of him. “You seem like a smart kid, Trey, but in future you’d probably do better to think about what you’re going to do before you do it.”
“Look before you leap, right, Dad?”
“Which could also apply to answering telephones,” said Mr. Pisbo, with a completely straight face. “Right, Velma?”
Resolutely looking anywhere but in Velma’s direction, it took all the strength Trey possessed to stop himself from smiling. Or snorting.
“Soon as I finish this, young Mr. MacIntyre,” Mr. Pisbo forked up some lasagne, “I’m running you back home, before you can get into any more trouble…”
15 MAKING PLANS
The Royal had in all likelihood, even in its heyday, never been what you could call a Five Star joint, but it was cheap, reasonably clean and had a coffee shop. It would do, and Joe Cullen had booked two rooms for them; he was not doubling up with Dewey as not only could Mr. Dunne afford the expense, but the boy snored like a hog with a sinus condition.
The hotel did not have phones in the rooms, but there were two booths in the lobby and, having sent Dewey to get him an evening paper, Joe took one of them. Closing the folding door, he gave the operator Bowyer Dunne’s private number, placed a collect call and waited for it to go through. As he sat on the fold-down chair, Joe lit a cigarette, shook his head and thanked his lucky star that Dewey’s little stunt with the boy on the street hadn’t ended up with them under arrest on some heinous Federal charge. While he wasn’t above a little breaking and entering in the line of duty, he did, however, balk at kidnapping.
“Joe?” Bowyer Dunne’s voice barked in Joe’s ear. “There a problem?”
“No, Mr. Dunne.”
“You got that film yet?”
“Not so far, Mr. Dunne.”
“Why not?” Bowyer Dunne’s voice rose a pitch or two. “Is there some kind of problem? What is it?”
“There’s no problem, boss.” Joe tried to sound as calm as possible. “Security at the building’s on the tight side is all.”
“You call me collect to tell me that?”
“No, I called to say that we should be back tomorrow. Just keeping you in the picture, like you asked.”
“In case it had slipped your mind, me being in the picture is what this is all about, Joe! Just do the damn job and get yourself and the boy back here to Topeka!”
The phone went dead and Joe was left listening to the purr of a dial tone. He put the receiver down, stood and exited the booth. Sometimes – no, he thought, make that often – he wondered why he didn’t quit and go home to Tampa. Of course, Bowyer Dunne paying quite so well as he did meant the decision was not an easy one.
Joe went over to the coffee shop, which had an entrance from the hotel’s lobby; frankly, a cold beer, whiskey on the side, was more what the situation called for, but Prohibition had put an end to a man being able to buy himself a drink without breaking the law. It had also stopped you propping up a bar while you waited for someone, which was why the Royal was attempting to make up for some lost income with a coffee shop.
The only advantage was that, sitting in a window booth, Dewey would be able to spot him without too much trouble; Joe did not want to give the boy an opportunity to get anything else wrong. It was a liability having him here, but Joe hated to think what he might get up to left to his own devices. Which was why he couldn’t leave him at the hotel tonight when he went back to the Tavistock.
Dewey had, naturally, managed to get lost on his way back with the paper, a situation not helped by the fact that he’d also forgotten the name of the hotel. A Western Union telegram delivery boy had eventually brought Dewey into the coffee shop, and Joe felt obliged to tip the kid a quarter for his troubles, part of him wishing he hadn’t had to take delivery of this particular sorry item.
Sitting watching Dewey chow down on a couple of hambur
gers and a soda, Joe made up his mind that the boy had had his chance – not to make too fine a point, a lot of chances – and, whatever Joe’s wife said, he was going to let him go when they got back. Enough was definitely enough.
“Okay…” Joe waited until Dewey had finished cleaning ketchup residue off his plate with his forefinger, then signalled for the check. “We have work to do, before we go to work.”
The old guy running the elevator – “Lester”, according to the name embroidered on his threadbare jacket – was fast asleep when they exited the coffee shop and, as they were only on the second floor, Joe elected to walk up.
“What work we have to do, Joe?”
“I have to go over everything that’s going to happen tonight, so you know what to do and get it right when it comes to doing it. Mainly you just have to listen to me talk.”
“That’s it? I gotta listen, is all?” Dewey sounded more than a little disappointed.
“There’s slightly more to it than that…” But, Joe thought as they reached his room and he unlocked the door, not a whole lot.
Letting Dewey in first, Joe paused and checked his watch under the hallway light: 9.30 p.m. Three some hours before the main event. Surely enough time to drum a few simple instructions into Dewey’s thick skull. Closing the door behind him, Joe slipped on the security chain, thinking what little good it would do in the event of anyone seriously wanting to get into the room. Joe crossed over to the bed, on which lay the package he’d picked up earlier in the day.
“What’s in the parcel, Joe?” Dewey sounded excited, like a kid at Christmas.
“You like dressing up?” Joe got his bone-handled clasp knife out, cut the string and stood back. “Take a look.”
“Dress up as what?” Dewey came over and unfolded the brown paper to reveal a peaked hat sitting on top of a jacket and trousers. “A doorman?”
“No, Dewey, the maître d’ in a fancy restaurant – what’s it look like? It looks like a cop’s uniform, see the brass doohickey on the hat? Know why?” Joe didn’t wait for an answer. “Cuz it is a cop’s uniform, that’s why.”
“Just the one? What’re you gonna be wearing?”
“Me? What I’m standing up in.” Joe reached into his breast pocket and flipped open a leather badge holder. “As I am the plain-clothes detective, and you are the patrolman that’s assisting me in my endeavours.”
“Are these for real?” Dewey picked up the hat and put it on; it was slightly large and sat a bit low down on his ears, but Joe figured it would do for what was needed.
“Indeed they are.”
“Where the heck you get them, Joe?”
“In this city, you know the right people, you can buy anything or anyone. And I happen to have the money and know the right people.”
“What if we get caught?”
“The idea is, with you in that uniform, there should be a whole lot less chance of that happening.”
“This legal, then? Me wearing a cop uniform and all?”
“No, Dewey, it ain’t. Not one bit. But then neither is anything else I got planned for tonight…”
16 BEANS ARE SPILLED
Although he hadn’t shown it, Alex had been beside himself since they’d left the house, sitting in the back of the Packard with his mother, Davis driving. What was he going to do about Trey? In the car there was not a thing he could do, but maybe when they got to wherever it was they were going, maybe he could call the apartment again, see if Trey had come back.
But what if he hadn’t? What then? Would that mean those two guys had managed to get Trey, the way they’d gotten him? And how would he know if it did mean that? Who should he tell? Ought someone to call the police?
This last thought made Alex stop chasing his tail for a moment.
He was not a stupid kid (he knew that without anyone having to tell him) and he’d known since forever that there were two sides to his father: the side that he saw at home and when they went places as a family – the friendly guy who shook hands a lot – and the other side. The one that had to do with Uncle Mario. Alex mainly ignored that stuff, but figured it meant his dad would not be particularly happy about calling the cops. That other side was also one of the reasons why he generally went by the name Little, instead of his real name, Klein. This was also so no one would know straight out they were Jewish, which Alex recognized could be a problem in certain circles.
“Where exactly we going, Ma?”
Alex’s mother, in a pool of light from the rear reading lamp, looked up from the periodical she was flicking through. “Fox Lake, sweety-pie…your Uncle Mario has taken a big house out there and, like I said, we’ve been invited. I just hope the place isn’t too draughty.”
“How far is it?”
“I have no idea, sweety. Davis?”
“Yes, ma’am?” The chauffeur glanced up at the rear-view mirror.
“How far is it, this house at Fox Lake?”
“Forty-five, forty-six miles; only about twenty miles to go now, ma’am.”
Alex sat forward on the bench seat. “You been there before? What’s it like?”
“I’ve not been there, but Mr. Kl – Mr. Little told me it was quite a spread, big avenue leading up to it, stables and suchlike. An estate, he said.”
“Why’s Dad not with us, Ma?”
“He’s already there, dear. There was a meeting and he went down this morning.”
Alex, who hadn’t turned his light on, returned to the unlit gloom of his corner of the back seat, still with no idea what he was going to do about Trey. He should not be on his way to this Fox Lake place for the weekend, he should be back in Chicago trying to warn his friend that he was in danger!
Unlike Alex, Trey didn’t come from a world where families had bodyguards the way other people had maids. He looked at the back of Davis’s head, his chauffeur’s hat on at a jaunty angle; it might look like all he did was drive the car, but Alex knew there was always a loaded pistol in his shoulder holster. This was the first time he’d thought about that not being normal…
Half an hour later, Davis turned the Packard off the road, its headlights picking out tall, red-brick pillars with stone eagles on top, and fancy wrought-iron gates as the car swept round onto a wide gravel drive.
“At last!” said Alex’s mother.
Alex looked at the massive, baronial-style house at the end of the drive. A couple of other big cars were parked outside, and someone was getting out of one of them.
“Looks nice, I have to say,” said Alex’s mother, gathering her possessions together. “Like it should be in Scotland or somewhere.”
For Alex the next half an hour was a blur of introductions, social niceties, a short tour of the house – which was extensive and featured a lot of dark wood everywhere – and finally a few minutes alone in his room. Correction, his suite. He had a bedroom, a sitting room and a bathroom and two telephones. By the time he got there, Alex found that his valise had arrived before him and been unpacked.
He stood frowning at the telephone on the nightstand by the bed. Maybe he could try phoning Trey’s apartment again, find out if he’d come back. Or that he hadn’t. Alex shook his head; he knew exactly what he had to do, and that was to go and find his father and tell him everything that had happened. He would figure something out.
Alex hurried along the corridor to the double staircase that led to the large, semicircular lobby, skidding to a halt as he got there. At the bottom of the stairs, standing talking to a woman in a shimmering silver dress with a scooped back, was the man he’d seen posing on his own by Uncle Mario’s car in the photo Trey had taken! Same smile, same slicked-back hair that the man now smoothed down with both hands.
Alex carried on down towards the lobby, scrutinizing the man as he went to make sure he hadn’t made a mistake. By the time he’d reached the last stair he was completely positive. Alex watched him light the woman’s cigarette with a gold lighter, then saw him lean forward and say something to her; she half-turned a
nd glanced his way, smiling, her eyebrows arched. Alex, realizing he’d been caught staring, turned away, looking for an escape route.
“I know you, son?”
Turning back again, Alex shook his head. “No, sir.”
The man frowned as he examined Alex, up and down. “Wait a second – you Nate’s boy, Nate Klein?”
“Ah, yes sir…”
“You sure are the spit of your dad, but I suppose you know that already.” The man grinned at Alex. “What’s your name.”
“Alex.”
“Good to meet you, Alex, I’m Tony Burrell. It was me you were eyeballing, right? First I assumed it was that young lady I was talking to who’d caught your attention; you near enough fell down the darn staircase!”
“Yeah, see…it’s like this, I think you know a friend of mine.” Alex felt he could trust this person because everybody in this place was there for one reason: Uncle Mario trusted them, which he knew could not be said of very many people.
“I do? And who might that be?” The man looked mildly puzzled.
“He’s called Trey, Trey Drummond MacIntyre III.”
“Well, I think I’d remember a handle like that, and I don’t believe I do, son.”
“He took your picture.”
“He did?” The man raised a curious eyebrow. “Where?”
“I’m not sure, but you were right next to Uncle Mario’s Duesenberg at some party; he has a shot of Uncle Mario, too.”
“Is that right – he with a lady?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who’d you say this kid was?”
“His name’s T. Drummond MacIntyre III, and he’s at the same school as me, Mount Vernon Academy, the place I go to now we’re in Chicago. He’s kind of a new friend…and the thing of it is, mister, I think someone’s after him! Fact is, they may have already got him…”
