Mean Streets

by Graham Marks

“The thing of it is,” Alex looked at his wristwatch, “I gotta go, my dad’s waiting for me downstairs, and I only really came up to say goodbye.”

  “Sure, right…you’d better…”

  “But the real thing of it is…” Alex began nervously pacing the room, then stopped. “Would you let me have the film those guys were after?”

  Taken aback by the completely unexpected turn in the conversation, Trey didn’t know what to say. Was this the real reason Alex had turned up? Not to say a final goodbye, but to act as a middleman. And it had to be for his “Uncle” Mario – who else?

  “It’s for my Uncle Mario,” Alex said, answering Trey’s unasked question, “but he didn’t tell me why.”

  “Oh, right…” Trey knew he sounded a bit off, then a small voice reminded him of what Trent Gripp always said: you were stuck with your family, but at least you could choose your friends. No matter that Trey had kind of faked becoming pals in the first place, he liked Alex and realized he’d miss him.

  “Okay…you can have it.” Trey went to his desk and pulled open a drawer. “You want the prints we made, too?”

  “How much…?”

  “Nothing.” Trey shook his head as he handed over a 10x8 inch Manila envelope; apart from the fact that Tony Burrell had already paid over the odds for a picture he never got, he really would feel guilty about taking money when there was a complete set of prints at Mr. Pisbo’s office. That would be dishonest.

  Nate Klein sat forward and pointed out of the car’s darkened windows. “There he is, Mario.”

  “Took his time about it.” Mario Andrusa didn’t look up, continuing to clean his nails with a small penknife.

  “All good things…” Nate watched his son walk towards the Cadillac, which was parked a block or two away from the Tavistock, and prepared to open the door for him to get in. “He has an envelope.”

  “He’s a good kid, Nate. A real good kid, you should be proud of him.”

  “I am…” Nate pushed the handle down. “I certainly am.”

  “Sorry I took so long, Dad.” Alex climbed in and sat down in the space between his father and his Uncle Mario, holding up the envelope. “I got it.”

  Mario snapped the blade of his knife shut, then took the proffered envelope. “How much?”

  “Nothing – I asked and he said he didn’t want a cent.”

  “We could learn a lesson here, Mario.”

  “Which is?” Mario picked up a black leather attaché case, opened it and put the envelope inside.

  “Sometimes, all you gotta do is ask nice.”

  34 LOOSE ENDS

  About a week later – or, as he liked to think of it, only a quarter of the way through his grounding – Trey came back from school, Friday afternoon, to find there had been visitors. Gramps and Gramma Cecilia were back in town! His mother said they wouldn’t be around for long and that they’d come by for coffee and a selection of Mrs. Cooke’s legendary baked goods. He’d missed them by about half an hour. But, his mother said, his gramps had asked her to tell him he’d be coming by Saturday, midday.

  Mrs. MacIntyre looked up from the magazine she was reading. “He said to make sure you were here.”

  “Very funny, I don’t think,” Trey humphed out of the room, “seeing as how I’m a prisoner in this apartment, and do not need reminding I can’t go anywhere else.”

  “I thought your father was remarkably restrained,” his mother called after him, “considering what you’d gotten up to, Trey.”

  “Well how comes,” Trey called back, “you didn’t get grounded for not knowing where I was?”

  “That’s one of the privileges of being a grown-up…we have a different set of rules.”

  Tramping upstairs to his room, Trey wondered exactly how long it would be before he would be allowed to play the game by those rules. Even though there was no getting round the fact that he was still a child, being treated like one all the time ticked him off no end; particularly as part of his punishment was a ban on making – or receiving – phone calls. This meant Trey had been unable to call Velma to see how Mr. Pisbo was, or find out any details at all about…well about anything. What had happened when the police raided Twelve Oaks? He didn’t know. What did the mobsters think Mr. Pisbo had seen to make them so keen on getting their hands on him? He did not know. Questions he could’ve asked Alex when he came round, but hadn’t had the time. And now Alex was back in New York.

  Sometimes life, in his considered opinion, was extremely unfair…

  It being a Saturday, normally Trey would have had plans. But not today. Today his options were really quite limited, but at least there was one avenue of escape still open to him. He had, for the last forty minutes or so, been thoroughly immersed in a gripping story called “The Darker Side of Sunset” from the latest issue of Black Ace magazine; it was set in Los Angeles, California, and involved the dastardly plans of an evil Oriental criminal mastermind and his cohort of brainwashed underlings. The sharp rat-a-tat knock brought Trey back, somewhat unwillingly, to reality.

  T. Drummond MacIntyre II popped his head round the door. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Me?” Trey jumped up, story forgotten. “Go where? I thought Gramps was coming here.”

  “Change of plan, we’re going there now.”

  “But I’m…”

  “Your grandfather persuaded me that I should allow you this treat, especially as your latest report card showed a distinct improvement on its predecessor.”

  “Hot dog!”

  “Just a second…” Trey’s father came into the room and surveyed his son and heir. “Run a comb through your hair, straighten your tie and don’t forget your jacket; the car’s being brought round to the front, so let’s get a move on. And, in case you were wondering, I’m driving.”

  Wetting his comb under the tap and hauling it through his hair, Trey wondered if his pop was ever going to let him forget what he’d gotten up to in Escape from Fox Lake (as he’d decided to call the story of what happened just a week ago, when he got round to writing it).

  Trey’s grandparents had a very nice row house on West Eugenie Street, less than fifteen minutes away. But, there having been an auto accident on one of the main cross streets, it was nearly twenty-five minutes later that Trey and his parents were walking up the steps to the ornate front door.

  Abigail, the maid, answered the bell and let them in, saying they should go straight down to the back lounge, where Mr. MacIntyre was waiting for them.

  “Everyone else is here,” Abigail said, closing the front door.

  “Who’s this ‘everyone else’, Pop?”

  “Wait and see.” Trey’s father smiled; he knew those were, used in that particular order, three of his son’s least favourite words.

  Fully aware that it would be worse than useless to ask any more questions, Trey picked up his pace and strode ahead down the corridor towards the half-open door. Slowing as he got to it, he knocked, as required by family tradition, and went on in; what he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

  “At last!” Gramps stood, a cheroot clamped in his jaw, his thumbs firmly anchored in his waistcoat pockets. He smiled broadly at his grandson. “The guest of honour has arrived!”

  “Apologies for the delay, there was a collision on West Oak and LaSalle.” Trey’s father came and stood next to his stunned offspring. “Are you going to do the introductions, Dad?”

  “Of course, of course, I was forgetting that, you,” Ace MacIntyre pointed at his son, “don’t know most of the assembled company! So, may I introduce Robertson Bonner – who, of course, you know by reputation; Captain Maynard, who works with Bob at the Bureau; Mr. Frederick Pisbo, of Pisbo Investigations, Inc., and his daughter Velma, not forgetting Banjo—”

  “My mom is still away,” Velma butted in, “and he hates being left at home by himself.”

  “Just so, just so, my dear!” Gramps nodded at Banjo. “Although I’m afraid he’ll have to stay here during lunch; the good Mrs. MacI
ntyre does not allow pets in the dining room.”

  The shock of seeing these people, who’d all played a part in the events of that extraordinary Saturday afternoon up in Fox Lake, had left Trey unusually tongue-tied. Then he noticed an absentee. “Where’s Shady?”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Jones…” Gramps struck a match and relit his cheroot. “He was invited, but I am informed by Fred – may I call you Fred?” Gramps glanced at Mr. Pisbo, who nodded his assent. “I am informed by Fred that Mr. Jones has – how did he put it, Fred?”

  “Well…”

  Velma leaped into the gap created by her father’s hesitant reply. “He said no offence, but he had a reputation to maintain in this burg, something which being seen in the company of officers of the law, and suchlike, would make it hard for him to do.”

  “Ha-ha!” Gramps threw his head back as he guffawed. “Sounds like a character, our Mr. Jones, shame he couldn’t see his way clear to being here with us today.”

  “But why are we all here today, Gramps?” Trey looked round the room, unable to fathom what was up, and why he was the “guest of honour”. Especially considering he was grounded.

  Gramps didn’t answer; instead he set about consulting his gold pocket watch. “Shall we all go through to the dining room? I have a feeling luncheon is about to be served.”

  “But Gramps…!”

  “All in good time, son…”

  There was something about the way his gramps looked at him that made Trey realize that patience (not one of his virtues) was what was called for now.

  “Right…” Ace MacIntyre went across to a nearby table, picked up a polished brass bell with an ebony handle and rang it. “Chow time, as they say down on the ranch!”

  35 ALL TIED UP

  Quite how he managed to contain himself during the meal, Trey did not know. He supposed it could have had something to do with sitting between Mr. Robertson Bonner and his gramps, and opposite his mother, father and Gramma Cecilia. Best behaviour called for, every which way he looked.

  He had so many questions that needed answering it was making his hair itch just thinking about it. Compiling a list in his head helped, but not much. And if he said a word he knew the reply would be “All in good time”, so he kept his trap shut.

  As coffee was being served, to those who wanted it, Gramps stood up, cleared his throat and tapped a glass with the blade of a silver cheese knife. “I think it is about time I put a certain young person of my acquaintance…” he patted Trey on the shoulder, “…out of his most obvious misery, and explain to him exactly why we are all here gathered today.

  “It is a universal truth that you cannot make an omelette without breaking some eggs, and it is, in my experience, also true that some rules are there for the purpose of being broken. The trick, I have found over the years, is to discover which they are – and then not get caught breaking them. Something that, more by luck than judgement I think it fair to say, young Trey here managed to do this summer whilst down at the Circle M.”

  “I did?” Trey looked up at his grandfather. “Which ones?”

  “There was only one infringement – that I know of.” Gramps raised an eyebrow, to general amusement. “Concerning the T-Bone ranch…”

  “Oh, that rule…” Trey felt his cheeks colour. “Sorry, Gramps…”

  “No need to apologize.” Ace MacIntyre patted his grandson’s shoulder. “I did have it in for that knucklehead Bowyer Dunne, but then he was trying everything he could to get me to sell him the ranch, cutting fences and such.”

  “That was him?” Trey queried. “Bowyer Dunne was the barbarian, hooligan saboteur, Gramps?”

  “Sure was, son.” Ace MacIntyre nodded, tickled pink to hear his own words coming back at him. “He figured it’d be easy to bamboozle an old man, but he hadn’t reckoned with me – or you, for that matter, Trey! Truth is, if you hadn’t ignored my edicts and gone to that party at the T-Bone, certain situations would be markedly different than they are today – correct, Bob?”

  “Indubitably, Ace.” Mr. Robertson Bonner leaned back in his chair, nodding in agreement. “Taking those pictures certainly put more than one cat amongst the pigeons – as Mr. Dunne, before he’d sobered up properly, was only too ready to explain!”

  “How’s that, sir?” Trey frowned. He was having a deal of trouble taking in everything he was being told and wished he hadn’t forgotten Austin J. Randall’s Number 1 rule: always carry a notebook and pencil!

  “Well, son, I can tell by the look on your face that this is all about as clear as a stirred-up muddy pond to you,” Mr. Bonner said. “So would you like to hear the story, as far as we all have been able to make it out?”

  “You bet!” Trey sat bolt upright, alert as a gundog who’s just heard a 12-bore being loaded.

  “Captain Maynard?” Mr. Bonner enquired. “As you’ve been running this case, would you mind taking over?”

  “It’d be my pleasure, sir.” Captain Maynard sat back and shot his cuffs. “Right from the start, Trey, it was your sharp eyes that set this whole investigation rolling.”

  “Really – me?”

  “If you hadn’t told your grandfather about seeing that Buick with the flat tyre – and then that you’d spotted it again at the T-Bone ranch – he wouldn’t have called my boss and the Bureau wouldn’t have begun looking at the connections between Bowyer Dunne and Mario Andrusa.” Captain Maynard smiled at Trey. “And, as Mr. Bonner said, the pictures you took at the birthday party sure did get everyone worked up.”

  “They did?”

  “Seems Mr. Dunne thought your grandfather had sent you to spy on him, and he became convinced Mr. MacIntyre was going to use the pictures of him with a gangster in the papers.”

  “A spy? Me?”

  “That’s what Dunne told us.” Captain Maynard took a moment to light a cigarette. “But there’s another twist, because it turns out Mario Andrusa also had his own, very personal reasons for not wanting anyone to see the snaps you took…something to do with the lady he was with not being his wife.

  “In fact, Andrusa got so worked up when he found out about the snaps, Mr. Dunne panicked, lied through his teeth and told Mario that he’d already gotten hold of the pictures and destroyed them. So he really was desperate to get them back, which is why he dispatched those two fellows that broke into your apartment.”

  “You mean the cop who got shot wasn’t a cop?” Trey was stunned at the news; Captain Maynard shook his head. “Gee, all this trouble over a couple of pictures – who’da thought, huh?”

  “Who indeed.” Captain Maynard tapped some ash off his cigarette, then continued addressing his audience. “It wasn’t until we’d finally persuaded Mr. Dunne to turn State’s Evidence and spill the beans that we realized Mario Andrusa was still going to want those pictures back. And that he’d most likely think Trey still had them. Trouble was, we didn’t get that information until—”

  “You mean Andrusa could send someone to get them?” Trey’s father interrupted, eyes widened with shock.

  “Not could, Mr. MacIntyre. He already did.”

  “What?!” Trey’s mother’s complexion paled noticeably.

  Captain Maynard coughed and straightened his tie. “You didn’t say anything about this yet, Trey?”

  Trey’s father pinned him with a look. “Speak up, Trey.”

  “Um, well…you had said that the topic of conversation was banned, Pop.”

  “We – Sophia and I – well, we felt that enough had been said,” Trey’s father explained, looking at his own father for support. “I didn’t think any more talk about the incident would help get things back into a proper perspective. Exactly what haven’t you told us, Trey?”

  “Just that Alex came by the apartment on Monday after school.”

  “What for?”

  “To say goodbye, Pop. You know, as he was going back to New York. Except the real reason Alex turned up was to buy the negatives off me. He’d been asked to get them by his Uncle Mario. But as Alex d
idn’t know Mr. Pisbo already had a full set of the photos, I gave them to him, gratis, along with all the other prints I’d made. Seemed like the best thing to do…seeing as if Mr. Andrusa knows for sure I don’t have them any more, why would he come looking for them again?”

  T. Drummond MacIntyre II looked at his son in speechless amazement.

  “We came as soon as we found out, Mr. MacIntyre, but that was Tuesday morning; you’d left early, apparently, and Trey here was about to go to school.” Captain Maynard stubbed out his cigarette. “He told us what had occurred, and I have to say, I think he was right on the nail with what he did – Andrusa thinks he’s home clean, and we know he isn’t. Good work, Trey!”

  Gramps stood and grasped Trey’s shoulder. “Well I think we should raise a glass in a toast to my grandson – he’s a chip off this old block, no doubt about it!” As Gramps raised his glass Trey saw the maid, Abigail, come up and whisper something in his ear. “One final announcement, folks: I’ve just been informed that a guest who couldn’t get here before is waiting in the lounge, so I think we should all go and join him!”

  Walking into the lounge Trey saw a man in a brown check suit standing with his back to the room looking out of the window at the garden; he turned as everyone came in, revealing himself to be a florid-faced, slightly portly gentleman with a fine salt-and-pepper walrus mustache that completely hid his mouth.

  “Mr. Randall! Pleased to meet you!” Gramps strode across the room, hand outstretched. “So glad you could make it. May I introduce you to my grandson, T. Drummond MacIntyre III?”

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, young sir, heard a lot about you!” The man grabbed Trey’s hand and pumped it for all he was worth. “Austin J. Randall, at your service!”

  Trey was still dumbstruck at the idea that right here in front of him was the actual man who had written How to Become a Private Eye in 10 Easy Lessons – which, to be honest, was astonishing enough – when Mr. Pisbo appeared, shouting “Jeff! What’re you doing here?” and things proceeded to get stranger still.