by P. N. Elrod
The music was loud; I leaned in close so Barrett and Izzy could hear. “You two are Mr. and Mrs. Howard, got that?”
“No wedding ring,” said Izzy.
“Keep your gloves on.”
“And if I meet anyone I know?”
“Tell them about your romantic elopement, Mrs. Howard. I’m Mr. Taylor, and from this point on you both do what I say. Got it?”
They got it, but looked amused.
The evening’s first show had just ended and patrons were leaving. A hostess led us to a table near the dance floor and a moment later a waiter came to see if we were thirsty. Barrett and I took coffee, and with a straight face Izzy ordered a Shirley Temple.
“Nothing stronger?” I asked.
“I don’t like the taste of booze.”
She’d also seen what it was doing to Clapsaddle. I wondered how deep their working relationship ran.
Barrett discussed the possibility of obtaining a steak for the lady. The waiter was encouraging. I looked around, studying the operation. I couldn’t help but compare it to my own club.
Lady Crymsyn was swank, but not on the same scale as this joint. The stage and dance floor were huge; there were five times as many tables, and the bouncers certainly outnumbered the drunks. It was packed. During the week I was lucky to fill half the tables. Weekends were when I made the real profit. This one was doing two shows a night to full houses.
Different town, different patrons, I thought. Apples and oranges.
But some things would not be different.
I excused myself from the table and went up to the nearest bouncer. He didn’t look unfriendly.
“Is he in?” I asked. “There is always a “he” for an operation like this.
“Is who in?” he rumbled back.
“You know. Tell him John Taylor’s here about that problem on Long Island.”
“Why should I?”
“Wait and find out. You won’t like it.”
“You a cop?”
“Funny guy. I’m gonna bust a rib laughing. Pass the word.”
I returned, sat down, and looked the other way. He would either move the problem along or not. My money was on the latter.
“What did you do?” asked Barrett.
“Gave him my calling card. Izzy, are you sure Brogan’s here?”
“It’s a little late to ask, but yes, he is. That’s him in the gray suit at the end of the bar.”
Which would put him behind me. I couldn’t think of a good reason to casually turn around, so I did it not-so-casually. He’d want to check me out before talking, anyway.
There’s no mistaking the boss for certain kinds of jobs. Brogan lounged with one arm on the bar, his back to a wall, a drink within reach, the whole of the club within view, its lord and master keeping an eye on his investment. I did the same thing at my place, but without the drink. A brown-suited minion was busy bending his ear, and nearly had to stand on tiptoe to do it.
Men of all sizes and shapes are in the gangs, but the big guys tend to have a natural instinct for intimidating their way to the top. Brogan was one of those, about my height, but much more solid, more obviously muscled, and in his prime. He had a thinning widow’s peak of blond hair, doughy, pockmarked features, and looked like he chewed nails with his morning coffee because he enjoyed the sensation.
His gaze focused on me for a long moment, showing no change of expression. He might be used to people coming in and staring, could be he encouraged it. Some bosses liked the attention.
I had a jolt of recognition. I had seen him before, but couldn’t recall just when. He’d have been to Gordy’s nightclub in Chicago and used a different name. Gordy had gotten into the habit of pointing guys out to me, and I’d have remembered an oddball moniker like Fleish Brogan. Whether he remembered me was something yet to be determined, and it was important.
The question was whether it would be a help or a hindrance. I only knew about gang politics of Chicago. Fleish Brogan could well be a rival to Gordy’s New York bosses. If so, then my strolling into his club and throwing my weight around could result in unwanted repercussions. It’s one thing to be a private person doing something stupid, it’s quite another to be seen as a representative of a gang and doing something stupid.
I’d hang on to the John Taylor moniker and see how that worked. If necessary, I could put a phone call through to Gordy later and ask his advice. Maybe he could get Brogan to steer clear of Barrett, which would be an equitable resolution for all.
The bouncer I’d spoken to had made his way over to Brogan but was intercepted by the minion in the brown suit.
“Looks like a tough nut,” I said, turning back to Barrett and Izzy.
“That’s his reputation,” said Izzy. “He’s supposed to have a special apartment here with bulletproof walls and windows, and rumor has it he’s got a secret passage leading to Central Park. I don’t believe the last one, though.”
I’d heard about Capone using underground service tunnels to shuttle booze around Chicago before repeal and was inclined to not dismiss such tales. “What else do you know? Clapsaddle have a lot of stories about him?”
“Not in the last few years. I went through that old file, and he had pieces on Endicott, nothing else for Brogan that month. You’d think there’d be more.”
“Back then every article in every paper in the city led off with ‘Missing criminal attorney, Griffin Endicott. . .’ They were going to give an award to the only writer who didn’t turn one in, but he lost because his editor put it in for him.”
She snickered. “Well, Clappie isn’t one to follow the herd, but you’ve got a point.”
“But nothing else on Brogan?”
“Not for that month.”
“And nothing lately.”
“Rumor is that he’s turning legit, but I know better.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Look around, Fleming. Those bouncers are armed, and there’s an awful lot of them, even for a club this size. Maybe some of Brogan’s interests are on the straight and narrow, but he still needs soldiers to keep things running smooth.”
“Brogan’s a big name in this town, right?”
“And that’s saying a lot.”
“A guy like that is Clapsaddle’s bread and butter.”
She made a throwing away gesture. “He’s got plenty of that. If it’s a slow week he digs out the name of some gang boss and does a column asking why isn’t he in jail yet. Once in a while it even works.”
“Brogan’s competitors?”
“Everyone’s been his competitor one time or another . . . but it is kinda odd.”
“Come on, Izzy. You know what that can mean.”
She did, which might explain why she didn’t give me a black eye.
“Well I don’t,” said Barrett, who had a rare gift for listening and had been using it.
Izzy shook her head. “I’m not believing it. For anyone else, it could mean that they’re purposely not doing stories about Brogan. Clappie’s got his faults, but he doesn’t back down. He gets death threats, he’s been beat up, and one time someone tossed a stick of dynamite in his car while he was driving home.”
“Good heavens, what happened?”
“Clappie got out real fast. The car hit a light pole and boom. Before the dust settled, he paid a kid with a Brownie to get pictures of the burning car and called in the story from a drugstore phone booth. I heard Clappie set the car on fire again himself to get the shot. They nabbed the birds pretty quick. Seems the DA didn’t want every reporter in the city publicly asking him what was taking so long to prosecute anyone who would kill one of their own.”
“That must have been after I left,” I said.
“Yeah. It shook everyone up, but it was business as usual with Clappie.”
“And nothing to do with Brogan.”
“You’ve made your point, Fleming, and I’m not buying it.”
I decided not to press matters. She was loyal to her friend and mento
r, and that counted for much, but it wouldn’t be the first time a journalist made an arrangement with an unsavory character. All Clapsaddle had to do was write about anyone else. New York was never short of crime and criminals. Such a sin of omission would hardly be noticed.
“Why are you after Brogan?” Izzy asked, aiming the question at both of us.
“It’s a personal matter,” said Barrett.
“I’m listening.”
“It would be better for you if you didn’t know.”
“Now I have to. Come on, off the record?”
He shot me a glance. I nodded and looked the other way, not without a painful twinge of guilt. A minute later and Izzy was cheerfully keeping time to the music. He’d headed off her curiosity with a few words and a dose of influence. She was just doing a favor for a friend, no story involved.
“How’s your high-stepping, big boy?” she asked.
“Let’s find out,” he said, and guided her down to the dance floor. He was a foot taller, and I couldn’t help but think of Mutt and Jeff for a second.
Barrett could dance. He guided her around the floor with style and enviable grace. I suppose he’d had years to practice and kept up with the times. Did he miss the dancing music they made back in his day? They still played longhair stuff on the radio and at concert halls, but it wasn’t as though he could do a minuet in the aisles. Was that in my future? A hundred years from now would they be playing the music I danced to or would I hear it only at a concert? If not, then I’d better start a record collection.
The waiter came up with the coffees and Izzy’s Shirley Temple. I sniffed to make sure it was all right. Nothing but ginger ale and grenadine, it was the wrong time of year to expect them to drop in a slice of orange. The coffee I didn’t worry about since Barrett and I wouldn’t be drinking.
It bothered me that I was this paranoid, but what the hell, I had my reasons.
On the dance floor a man approached them, cutting in to dance with Izzy. Maybe he liked ’em short. Barrett kept her in view so he could claim her again at the end of the number.
“Hello.” A bland-looking stranger—the brown-suited minion—sat uninvited in Barrett’s chair. “I’m Mr. Swann, the club manager. You are Mr. Taylor?” He had a pleasant face, and the wrong kind of eyes for a torpedo. Someone used to packing and dishing out heat would have something more in his expression. There’s no name for it, but once seen, never forgotten.
“You can call me that,” I said. “I’m not here to make trouble. Your boys can check. I’m not armed.”
“Well, that’s quite a relief, Mr. Taylor. But I think you’ll understand that you can’t just walk in and expect to interrupt my employer’s evening. He is a busy man.”
“Then he’s not interested in that business on Long Island?”
“You’ll have to be more specific. My employer has many interests to look after.”
“I respect that. This business, let’s call it a misunderstanding, involves bulldozers, machine guns, and midnight burials in the cold, cold ground.”
Swann’s mouth went tight as though he wanted to smile to cover up a bad taste, but couldn’t manage. It was painful seeing him try. “I’ll speak to him.”
“Thank you.”
He went away.
I noticed that Brogan had left his spot at the bar. He could be anywhere. My money had him in his office waiting for Swann to give him an assessment.
Now would be a good time to get Izzy out of here. She’d miss her steak, but Barrett could make it up another night. I’d tell him to whammy her, put her in a cab, and send her home.
I checked the dance floor. They were both gone.
Crap.
I got up and followed the mild-faced distraction, getting as far as the next bouncer. He was less friendly than the first, looming between me and an unremarkable door.
“Back to your table, bo’,” he told me.
I could flatten him in public, retreat, or find a way around. Or . . . “I’ll wait here.”
“Back to your table.”
“He’s gonna want to see me,” I said. “Why d’ya think Swann was moving so fast?”
He clearly wasn’t paid to be curious.
“They’re gonna send you to haul me in front of the boss in a minute, this just gets me outta your hair faster. Slap me down if you want, only not in front of the customers. I think that’s the chief of police over there by the horn section.”
He didn’t bother to look, but opened the door and breathed down my neck as I went by. When we were both on the other side in an equally unremarkable hallway, I popped him flat and caught him before he could make a noisy landing.
Not that anyone would have heard. The band music blotted out all other sounds, preventing me from hearing anything else, including Barrett and Izzy yelling for help. I could trust him to look after her, but this wasn’t his world. He might not react fast enough or know the right thing to say or when it was time to stop talking and start busting heads.
Whoever put that body in the hole on his estate had gone to the trouble of breaking the man’s bones and had no problem gunning down and burying strangers to keep things quiet. That level of violence and speed scared the hell out of me.
I checked inside the nearest room, which was a lounge for the stage talent, judging by the signed photos and comfortable seating. It was deserted, but the door in the opposite wall led to the backstage area, which was dark but more populated. The band was just on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling curtains that ran all the way to the other end of the big stage. No one paid me mind at first, then a harried man in shirtsleeves—all stage managers look the same—told me I wasn’t allowed in this part of the club.
“Brogan,” I said, interrupting his spiel. “Where is he? Now.”
I must have looked urgent and unreasonable. It was an accurate reflection of my internal state. He pointed and got out of the way. I hurried down another hall—dressing rooms, washrooms, storage—turned when it turned, and decided a door at the end with the MANAGEMENT sign on it might be the right place.
I didn’t bother knocking.
The mild-faced guy named Swann was genuinely startled when I blew in. For a long second it occurred to me that Izzy had gotten things wrong. We’d come to a legit operation and the manager was quite rightly calling the cops to deal with an unbalanced customer.
Then a bruiser who’d been lurking behind the door slammed something into the back of my knees, and down I went.
It must have been wood, because it hurt like hell. He should have aimed higher. If he’d caught me behind the ears I’d have been in real trouble. As he came around, perhaps to finish the job, I swung my near arm like a tennis player, but moving much, much faster than he could dodge, cracking the side of his knee.
He twisted, avoiding a break, but also dropped and tried to hit me again on the way down, flailing out with force. Nothing like a hickory baseball bat to take the starch out of a vampire. I caught it on the downswing, ripped it away, and smacked his head with my other hand. I was mad, but not stupid, using an openhanded slap. It stunned him silly, but no broken jaw or snapped neck resulted.
