Seriously?

by Duane Lindsay

  They do.

  A lot.

  After ten minutes Sal says, “Okay, that’s enough,” and they stop.

  Monk’s sprawled in a chair where they dumped him, feeling bruises forming everywhere. Not for the first time he says, “What the hell?”

  “Getting your attention.” Sal’s leaning in to stare down at him and Monk alternates between seeing him as a blur and seeing two of him. There’s blood trickling down the side of his face but when he tries to reach up to wipe it away, his arm doesn’t move.

  “Sal,” says Monk. His thoughts are fuzzy but centered around one question. “How...?” He swallows, coughs, tries again. “How... did you... find... me?”

  “My daughter told me you were here.” Sal’s got a smug, self-satisfied tone. He reaches out and grabs Monk’s hair, lifting his head. “You’re not so tough without Fleener around, are you?”

  “Neither are you, if you didn’t have these animals,” says Monk. “Send them away and I’ll show you tough.”

  “Scary,” says Sal. “But no. I want my money.”

  “What?”

  “The money you cheated me at cards. I want it back.”

  “That’s what this...” Monk feebly tries to wave a hand. “Is all about? The poker games? I didn’t cheat you, Sal. I beat you.”

  “Yeah? Well, now I beat you, so we’re even. But I want my money back.”

  “You shot up my store.”

  “I meant to shoot up you. I want my money.”

  “C’mon Sal be reasonable. You lost. I won. You hit back. Call it square and leave.”

  “No way. I want my money.”

  Seriously, the guy’s like a broken record, or one of those trained parrots, learns one phrase and says it forever.

  Monk’s thinking hard. He’s beaten up in a room that Bonnie should be back to by now. No way he wants these guys here when she does so he says, “Sure, Sal. Sure. I’ll give you back your money.”

  “Yes, you will,” agrees Salvatore. “With interest.”

  “Fine.” Monk’s rich. The thirteen thousand he won from Sal doesn’t amount to anything. And with interest, even the rates the loan sharks charge, can’t be that much. “Whatever. What do you want?”

  “Everything.”

  “What?”

  “Every fucking thing you own, Monkton. I want it all.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “You think you steal from me I won’t come after you and collect? I been searching for you since you left. Sent my daughter to bring you back. Now here’s what we’re gonna do...”

  Monk’s not listening. He’s getting a very bad thought about Sal’s daughter.

  “You’re gonna go to...”

  “Who is she?”

  “What?”

  “Your daughter. Who’s your daughter?”

  Sal sucks in a lot of smoke, takes his damn time letting it slip out through his nose. He’s grinning like he’s just heard Uncle Miltie tell an off-color joke.

  “Her name’s Teresa,” he says. “You might know her better as Bonnie Lieberman. Cute, huh? Good Italian girl calling herself by a Jew name? I figured even a big brain like you wouldn’t see that coming.”

  Monk’s shaking his head back and forth, like maybe denying will make the betrayal hurt less. He feels the hot sting of tears and a deep pain that even the fists of these brutes couldn’t cause. He thinks about how good it’s been with Bonnie, the plans he’s made, the joy he felt, and it all turns to ashes.

  It’s the worst he’s felt since Inez stole his baby daughter all those years ago.

  Salvatore Leon says, “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”

  THE END

  Hi all, I hope you enjoyed this second book in the lives and times of Lou and his friends. The first book, MISSING AMANDA is now out and ready for your enjoyment. Check out the first chapters below.

  I’d be grateful for any comments and reviews you can post on Amazon. The reviews help me get promotion which helps a lot in the sales of the books.

  There’s also a glimpse at another new book, this one written by my longtime friend and co-writer Raymond Dean White. It’s called Tap Doubt.

  By the way, feel free to check out Ray’s work. If you’re a fan of apocalyptic books – and who isn’t? – his ‘The Dying Time’ and sequels are amazing fun books to read.

  You can find him at

  http://www.RaymondDeanWhite.com

  And me, of course, at:

  http://www.DuaneLindsay.com

  Chapter 1

  August 19, 1958 – Chicago

  “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go...”

  Paul E. Smalls, in a two-room flat near Bryn Mawr, frantically stuffed clothes into a battered leather grip. His tan cotton pants were dirty, the white wife-beater tee stained and his brown shoes were scuffed. Everything else went into the case or onto the floor.

  He paused at a picture of his sister, tossed it in the bag, scanned the room and decided enough was enough. He threw on a shirt, tails out and unbuttoned, and slapped a fedora over his thinning hair, closed the bag and ran for the door.

  The mob, he thought as he dashed down the stairs two at a time. Jesus Christ, being chased by the damn mob. A choked sound came from his throat as he careened from the wall, off balance, and legged it down the last flight at the back of the building. He looked both ways and dashed for the black Ford Fairlane convertible across the alley.

  He almost made it. The case was in the back seat, his keys in his hand and his mind already on the road when something heavy hit him between the shoulder blades. He went down like a wet sack of cement, his back screaming in agony.

  Feet came into view, black tie-ons, argyle socks, and brown cuffs above them. Paul E. cringed and tried to scuttle backwards, crablike but hands lifted him, not gently, to his feet.

  Paul E. felt the harsh acid of rising bile. So close, so goddam close. If only he’d rabbited sooner.

  The guy shook him, making Paul E’s head roll around. From nearly closed lids Paul E. saw the goons’ hard expression and knew there’d be no mercy here, no sympathy. The ox was low grade muscle, paid to beat people and bring them to his masters.

  The mob. Fear like he’d never known went through his gut. The ox worked for Cermak. Guzman Cermak – Cermak the Surgeon. Stories of Sadism and torture attributed to the crime boss were legendary and if even half were true, Paul E. was in for a world of hurt.

  Cermak. They say he carried a scalpel in his lapel pocket...

  The ox shook him again and Paul E. pretended to be out, thinking of what he could do. He could scream but who’d listen? He could fight but why bother? It would be like hitting the brick wall behind him.

  But...Ox didn’t have a gun, or didn’t have it out, which was the same thing, In Paul E.s world, if you don’t pull a gun you didn’t intend to use one. So that was one good thing. And here was another: the guy was alone.

  Probably didn’t expect trouble from a private dick with a camera. Good. There might be a chance after all. He willed himself to stop shaking.

  He groaned again, theatrically, making it sound worse than it felt. His right shoulder where the ox had hit him was numb and useless, maybe broken, but his left felt okay If he did this right he might live to see Wisconsin.

  He waved a hand feebly – no acting there – as if to ward off the goon.

  He heard a laugh like the braying of a not particularly bright mule, but the vicelike grip on his arm lessoned. Paul E. slumped against the Fairlane, across the open window and slid down as if falling inside. His left hand scrabbled for the gun...

  Ox said, “Hey! Get up,” like a junk yard dog who could talk. He grabbed Paul E. by the shirt and yanked, expecting dead weight. The unbuttoned shirt ripped off. Paul E. came up fast and the goon overcompensated. Paul E. swatted at the horn in the center of the steering wheel and the Ford made a loud blatting noise, further startling the goon. Paul E. spun around with a silver .22 and pointed it straight into the guy’s startled face.<
br />
  The ox stepped back suddenly, like he’d been stung by a bee, the alley exploded with sound and a bullet shattered the Ford’s side mirror. There was another one.

  Paul E. reacted with the Army training from the war not that many years ago. He pulled the trigger twice and the little .22 cracked in the alley. The ox went down bellowing in pain and Paul E. swiveled left and dropped to his knees, feeling a bullet flash over his head even as he heard the blast.

  Five more time he fired his pistol, emptying it. A shadow teetered over a garbage can and fell into a shallow puddle of muck. Just like at the target range Paul E. thought, blessing his foresight in keeping up with his training. What would a private dick be without it?

  Dead, that’s what, and not pleasantly. He tossed the now empty gun into the back with the valise, opened the door and cursed. He couldn’t just leave the dead guys, not with his apartment just across the alley and himself about to vanish. The cops would put that together like lightning and the search would be on.

  No, gotta do something else. With his left arm useless the chore would be difficult but not impossible he pushed and pulled and dragged the nearest thug to the car, thanking Ford for the size of the trunk. He fit neatly, just above the spare.

  Paul E. went to the other guy – ox – and was surprised to see him still breathing. Well, not for long. Paul E. went back to the trunk, took the gun off the body, a nice silver plated .38, went back and shot ox twice in the chest. The gun jumped in his hand and Paul E. flinched at the sound.

  Farther away, ox took a bit more effort to drag to the car but soon he was slouched in the back seat like he was sleeping off a drunk. Paul E. pulled the ragtop into place, lugged it down with some difficulty, rolled up the window and got in. he drove carefully down the alley, made a left on 54th and hightailed it to the safety of Baraboo.

  Hey Rube, he thought. I’m coming.

  “It’s open.”

  Lou Fleener was admiring the White Sox coverage in the Tribune when a shadow darkened the frosted glass of his office window. The Sox were in second place, the Cubs in third. Louis Aparicio was hotter than the August weather. Was there a God? Could it happen?

  ” Lou called to the shave-and-a-haircut rapping at the door. He set down the paper and watched with interest as a big guy in a new Poplin suit pushed the door and shoved it closed with his hip. He shuffled across the dusty green and white checkered linoleum and sat in the guest chair. If an elephant wore summer weight cotton, it would look like this guy. The chair creaked.

  “You Fleener?”

  “What it says on the door.” ‘Lou Fleener – Private Eye –’ backwards in gold letters, painted on by a cousin of Monk’s.

  “Smart guy,” said the suit.

  “Lou shrugged modestly. “It’s true.” He put his feet on the scuffed wooden desk and leaned back. “What can I do for you?”

  “Word on the street is you’re good.”

  “Word’s right.”

  The guy cocked a jaw and bit his lip. His hair was cut short like a Marine, flat on top and razored on the sides. He didn’t look like a customer, but what does a customer look like? There had been so few lately that Lou lacked perspective.

  The suit fidgeted, took a pack of Lucky’s from an inside pocket and lit one from a gold Zippo. Lou pulled an ashtray from the drawer and slid it across the desk, a thick chunky glass souvenir from the Palmer Hotel. The bottom said, ‘A handy place to stay,’ in red ink under a pair of black dice. Classy.

  Lou studied the visitor for a moment as the smoke filled the small room. Nice suit, good cut, one of those new polyester fabrics, it covered the muscles as if tailored and concealed the gun under the left armpit. The guy was a blond with the features of a body builder gone soft.

  “Hey,” he said. “I know you!”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah. Yeah I do.” Lou snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, it’ll come to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. I’ve been sent –”

  “Got it! You’re Milt Stiltmeyer.” Lou slapped the desk in delight. “I’m right, right? Milt the Stilt?” Lou sounded like a fan at Comiskey meeting Minnie Minoso. In a moment he’d be asking for an autograph.

  The guy made hands down motions, like quieting down a rowdy dog. “It don’t matter who I am,” he said. “I’m here to bring you to –”

  But Lou wasn’t balked. “I know I’m right. Millie the Killer they call you. ‘Cause you killed that guy, what was his name? Stubbs, right, while you were wearing a dress.

  Milt looked pained.

  “Sure,” Lou said, “I know all about you.”

  Now Milt looked concerned. “How?”

  “I read about you. In the Trib. I got a scrapbook,”

  “The hell you mean, a scrapbook? You got a scrapbook of thugs?”

  “Sure.” Lou didn’t mention that it was Monk’s idea and that he’d been against it.

  Monk said, “If you’re going to do this – be a private eye –the least you can do is be prepared. You’ve got to study, know your enemies.”

  Monk talked like that, like he graduated from Loyola or someplace. “It could save your life.” Then he’d gone off to his used book store down on Clark street and came back with this huge pile of old musty newspapers and made Lou go through them every Thursday night. The company had been good, the beers cold and Lou had gotten into it, learning the names, nicknames and habits of the current Chicago mob scene.

  And now, here was one of them - in person! Lou could hardly contain his glee.

  “Bummer of a name, man,” he told Milt with real sympathy, meaning it. “Other guys have cool names like Sammy ‘the icepick’ or Bugsy Siegel or ‘Scarface’ Al. But you got saddled with ‘Millie.’” Lou shook his head at the unfairness of the world. “Coffee?”

  “The name’s not important” Milt said through clenched teeth, like he’d been explaining this most of his life, which he probably had. “I’m here to take you to see –”

  “Duke Braddock,” Lou finished for him. “You’re muscle for Duke Braddock.”

  Milt looked uncomfortable with that, pursing his lips around the cigarette and puffing like a ‘53 Buick Roadmaster. He started through the growing haze until Lou thought he’d maybe quietly choked to death. But, “Okay,” he said. “I work for Duke Braddock. You heard of him?”

  “Course,” said Lou. He sat up straight and his office chair creaked. “Who hasn’t?”

  Even without Monk’s research Lou would have heard about Braddock. Bookie, prostitutes, marijuana, some said Coke and the big H – heroin. If it was illegal or killed you it was probably connected to Braddock.

  “The mob guy,” he said simply.

  “The businessman,” corrected Milt.

  “The businessman then,” Lou agreed, smiling. No way, he decided, was he going to take this case. Duke Braddock was a major player. People who slept with Duke Braddock tended to wake up dead.

  Lou wasn’t afraid – hadn’t been for years, since those long months slogging through the Pacific theater – but still. “What’s a guy like Duke want with –”

  “A two-bit gumshoe?” Milt grinned like he’d been waiting for the line.

  “A private investigator,” Lou said with Dignity. His practice was small – just him – and the office wasn’t in the best part of town, and the El did rattle the windows twice an hour, but it was approved by the State of Illinois. Said so right on the license.

  The mentioned El chose that moment to rumble by the window, shaking the glass and making conversation impossible. The tracks were second story, just like the office. It kept the rent reasonable and there weren’t that many paying customers anyway.

  Mocking, the guy kept talking. Lou could see his lips move. Ha-ha, cute joke. Lou upgraded his opinion of the guy from hired muscle to idiot. No way would he take this case, whatever it was.

  When the train noise had faded to a muted rumbling he said, “Wha-da-ya want?”

  “The boss wan
ts to see you?

  Lou had maybe seven minutes before the next train so he rushed it. “No,”

  “You haven’t heard what he wants.”

  “Don’t need to. If Braddock’s involved, it’s dirty.”

  Milt looked offended. A cheap thug in a turtleneck – in this August heat; how was that possible? – offended for a boss who killed people. Honor among thieves, Lou supposed.

  Milt stared around the office; a short trip it was true – you could just about touch both walls if you stretched. “A punk like you,” he said. “Turning down Duke Braddock?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  Milt shook his head like he was clearing gnats. “A small time, no account piece of crap like you?”

  Go figure,” agreed Lou. He was enjoying this. Few enough people came here, an actual gangland celebrity was a treat. Since opening the office two years back Lou hadn’t met anyone more dangerous than the bartender at Billie Goat’s, steamed about the bar bill.

  Milt stood up, stretched, his fingers brushing the ceiling. “You gotta come with me.”

  Standing he was bigger than he looked sitting, filling out the suit like a stuffed sausage. Worse, he balanced lightly on his feet and turned sideways like a fighter. A pro for sure.

  Lou’s smile became a grin. This was getting better and better.

  “Get up.” Milt motioned with the front fingers of his left hand. His right hand was resting on the edge of the desk.

  Lou stood. He exhaled through his lips, blowing out all the air, sagging as if resigned and Milt relaxed, seeing the expected obedience.

  Lou said, “Sorry,” picked up the ashtray and slammed it down on Milt’s fingers. Cigarette butts flew across the room in a spray of spark and ash.

  The glass broke, Milt howled and automatically stuck his injured paw toward his mouth, Lou grabbed the wrist and pushed along with it, the motion making Milt bend back to avoid slapping himself in the face.

  Once Milt was off balance Lou shoved him – hard – in the middle of that broad chest and kept pushing. Milt fell back, hit the door head first and the frosted glass shattered, the lettering gone with the wind. Monk was not going to be pleased, Lou thought, especially since his cousin hadn’t been paid yet.