Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Mr. Melnik owns Sierra Films; he is from Hollywood. This is, of course, actress and film star Maxime Durant, and leading man Adam Roberts.”

  “Sierra Films?” Alfano looked at Melnik.

  “Yes, Hollywood,” Melnik answered.

  “Yes, I heard, interesting. Miss Durant and Mr. Roberts, a pleasure. I’ve enjoyed your movies.” Alfano shook their hands.

  “Adam, the man has seen your pictures,” Durant said. “Amazing, even here in Hicksville.”

  “Detective, just ignore her,” Roberts said.

  “We are more progressive here in Hicksville than you think, Mr. Roberts,” Alfano said. “I especially liked your gunslinger in the western The Man on the Black Horse. I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that.”

  “Special effects and editing help. I have a great team,” Melnik injected. “I’ve done five pictures with these two wonderful actors. They starred together in two of them.”

  “Yes, Maggie Mae and that ghost film, Angels and Stars,” Alfano said.

  “See, there are sophisticated hicks. He’s seen your pictures, too, Hines,” Durant added.

  “And you are an idiot,” Roberts said.

  Alfano studied the two; he was developing a new appreciation for the acting profession, one that was not what he believed ten minutes earlier. These two reminded him of a bickering married couple, the kind the police visit.

  “Tony, Mr. Melnik is shooting a new picture that features Chicago as the background,” the mayor said.

  “A gangster film?” Alfano asked. “There’s already been too many of those about Chicago. There’s The Public Enemy, Scarface, even Little Caesar—none of those helped our image.”

  “Let me worry about our image,” Nash said from his chair.

  The mayor brushed off Nash with a wave of his cigar. “Never enough publicity, that’s what I say. And now especially with the fair.”

  “Don’t worry, Detective,” Melnik said. “This picture is from the cop’s point of view, no glorifying the bad guys. I want to show how the police deal with scum; how they face evil and vanquish it. Adam is a detective, not unlike you, Detective Alfano—experienced, tough, no nonsense. He gets right into the grille of the bad guys, shows them who’s boss. Mayor Kelly has high praise for you.”

  Alfano looked at the mayor and watched a smile break on the face of His Honor. Now what? he thought.

  “Thanks, Hines. Yes, Tony is a one of my best,” Kelly said. “He’s an excellent detective, always gets the bad guy, and I consider him to be a friend. He’s my go-to guy.”

  I am so screwed, Alfano thought. He looked at Maxime Durant. The coy smile on her lips was directed at him. His first thought was of a high-class hooker, not one of Hollywood’s highest-grossing female actresses. Yes, he was screwed.

  “Tony, may I call you that?” Melnik said. Then, not waiting for an answer, “I am looking for authenticity. I want the real face of a streetwise detective. I want Adam to look and be the part.”

  “And how am I going to help him do that?” Alfano said.

  “Tony,” the mayor said, interrupting Melnik, “for the next few days, I want you to take Mr. Roberts with you on your investigations, show him the ropes, have him learn from you.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Alfano said. “No way. I work alone, you know that. That’s why I’m effective.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for,” Melnik said excitedly. “I want the Continental Op, or the Sam Spade type.”

  “Those guys were private dicks, not professional police officers—and they are fiction,” Alfano said. “Here the bad guys really kill people, dump their bodies in the lake, shoot up bars, run brothels, even pander women. It’s not a nice place out there.” He pointed to the window.

  “I love this guy,” Melnik said. “Did you see that, Adam? The passion, the vibe, the intensity. That’s what I want.”

  “I got it, Chief, no problem,” Roberts answered.

  “You are all idiots,” Durant said. She stuck a cigarette in the end of a long gold holder and waited. Eventually, after a couple of beats, Roberts lit her cigarette.

  “Tony, do I have to make this a direct order?” Kelly said. “I was hoping that you would get on board and help us out here. Hines has a great idea for the film. He’ll send a crew here to shoot local scenes and set the mood of the city.” The mayor was practically gushing. “Hines says this will be the most authentic cop movie ever made. Some of the filming—well, most of it—will be in Los Angeles. We talked about doing the work local here, but he has his crews already in place in California.”

  Alfano stared at them in turn. Screwed didn’t begin to cover it.

  “Mr. Melnik, what is the name of your production company again?” he asked.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It was a simple question, nothing more.”

  “Sierra Films Productions. We are located in Los Angeles.”

  “Yeah, you said Hollywood.”

  “Interchangeable.”

  “Did you book four rooms at the Palmer House?”

  “Why are you asking these questions, Detective?” Kelly said.

  “An ongoing investigation, sir.” Alfano looked at Melnik. “Did you?”

  “My people did. We are staying there,” Melnik said. “We spent last night in Evanston—it’s on our publicity tour. Came straight back here this morning, haven’t been back to the hotel. You said an ongoing investigation?”

  “A dead woman was found on the twenty-fourth floor in one of the rooms you booked. Preliminary findings suggest she was murdered.”

  Durant’s response was a quick and loud inhale. Roberts turned pasty white. Melnik said, “Do you know who she is?”

  “There has been no identification made. She was nude, on the floor, and most probably shot. The crime scene was a bit muddled.”

  “Muddled, Detective?” Nash interjected.

  “Yes, muddled. Contradictory signs, confusion, staged—muddled.” Alfano looked at the movie director. “Do you know a woman with bleached white hair, cut short, green eyes, pale complexion? She has a tattoo of a heart on her upper left thigh.”

  “How did you know that?” the mayor asked, obviously not remembering what Alfano had just said.

  “My God,” Roberts said. “That’s Kitty.”

  “Who’s Kitty?” Alfano said.

  “Kitty Hill. She has worked at Sierra for the past five or six years, bit parts, reasonably good. I was grooming her for big things. But her real job was working as executive assistant to me,” Melnik said.

  “Yeah, your very personal big things,” Durant said.

  “You shut the fuck up. She was found last night, Detective?” Melnik said.

  “Actually, early this morning,” Alfano said. He looked at the three Californians and had a thought. “Mayor, I’ll take on Mr. Roberts, show him the ropes as you asked. After a couple of days, he will be so bored he’ll want the role of the gangster and not the cop.”

  “When do we start?” Roberts said.

  “Right now. I’m parked out front,” Alfano said. “I’m at the beginning of this investigation, so you can watch how it unfolds. Ask any questions you like; I’ll answer what I can. That work for you, Mayor?”

  “Damn, that’s why I like you, Tony. You grab on and take off.”

  “Adam,” Melnik said, “remember that we have that appearance tonight at the fair. It’s at seven o’clock. The press and your fans will be there. Do not be late.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets there,” Alfano said.

  “Detective, just make sure you don’t need backup,” Durant said, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke into the air. “He really can’t shoot a gun. He’d pee in his pants if he had to shoot a real one.”

  “Stuff it, you bitch,” Roberts answered.

  “Ooh, sticks and stones.”

  Alfano looked at Roberts. “Let’s go, Hollywood.”

  Alfano turned and walked out of the mayor’s office with an overly eag
er Roberts on his heels. As he started down the stairs, the face from earlier, walking out of the mayor’s office, got a name: Spats Lanigan.

  CHAPTER 4

  After making a few phone calls at the phone bank off the lobby of the Palmer House, Alfano went outside to wait for Roberts. He lit a cigarette. The leading man had asked for a few minutes to clean up and change clothes. He brought his overnight bag with him from the mayor’s office. Alfano gave him fifteen minutes.

  During the eight-block drive from city hall, Alfano learned that Adam Roberts was twenty-nine years old and born in Fresno, California. His father had been a fig and walnut grower before the crash. Roberts was now paying their rent; at some point he planned on buying their farm and giving it back to them. His mother was a homemaker. He had a younger brother still working the farm. Roberts graduated from UCLA in 1924, was on the football team, did some acting in school plays, and was spotted by Melnik during a game with USC. The movie director tested him for the role of third cowboy on a two-reel silent western. Roberts stood out and had made ten films during the past four years, all with Melnik. Roberts was hardly the reticent, deep-thinking character he played in the movies. Alfano was pretty sure Roberts would drive him nuts during the next few days.

  The central bronze doors of the hotel swung open, and Adam Roberts walked out. To Alfano’s shock, the man had changed into a suit and tie that almost matched what he was wearing. This included the grey fedora. Two women standing outside waiting for a cab instantly recognized the actor; within seconds they were holding out pens and papers for him to autograph. Soon three more acolytes converged.

  “Roberts,” Alfano yelled. “We are late. We need to go, now.”

  “Yes, Detective, one minute,” Roberts answered.

  “No, now—or I’m gone.”

  Roberts broke away, smiling and shaking hands. One woman tried to kiss him; he gently pushed her back. Alfano believed the expression on her face was orgasmic.

  Two blocks later, Alfano asked, “Is it like that all the time?”

  “No, more when we are on the road promoting; there’s a bit of expectation involved. Those ladies had been waiting since early morning for me to show up.”

  “Do Durant or Melnik get that kind of attention?”

  “No. Sometimes, someone waves a photo of Maxime in one of her more indelicate costumes and asks for an autograph. I hate to think why—lot of weird people out there—but you know that being a cop. So, where are we off to?”

  “The coroner and the morgue.”

  It was like a door had slammed shut. For the next ten minutes, as they drove through traffic, Roberts didn’t say a word. He just looked out the window.

  Alfano parked in the alley behind a nondescript brick building. A sign tacked to the wall read: Police Only.

  “This way,” Alfano said as he went to a steel rear door. A button was secured to the right frame. When he pushed the black button, they could hear the buzzer sound through the door. A minute passed, and then the door opened.

  “Hi, Doc,” Alfano said to the man standing in the open door. “This is Adam Roberts. He’s my ride-along today, at the mayor’s request.”

  “Aren’t you lucky,” Doc Abrahamson said, looking at Roberts.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Roberts said.

  Alfano followed the coroner into the hallway that led into the guts of the morgue. Alfano couldn’t help the smile on his face, a mildly sadistic smile. He could hear Roberts breathing shallowly. The door slammed behind them, and the doc threw the dead bolt.

  “Why are we here?” Roberts said.

  “Adam, as I’ve said, last night a woman was murdered in the Palmer House Hotel, your hotel. In fact, she was found two doors down from the room that you were assigned by Sierra Films. We do not know who specifically was staying in the corner room; maybe you can help me there. We also did not know who she was until Hines Melnik gave me the name, Kitty Hill. My people have been doing some checks on her identity.” He looked at the coroner. “I believe that it has been confirmed?”

  “Yes, confirmed,” Doc Abrahamson replied. “And, as requested, I placed the young lady at the front of the line. I finished the autopsy fifteen minutes ago.”

  They walked down another hallway. The smells of chemicals and putrefaction hung in the air. Roberts reacted with a gagged cough. Gurneys were spaced along the cool hallway; white sheets covered all of them.

  “And these are?” Roberts asked meekly.

  “The unlucky dead,” Doc Abrahamson said. “All types and kinds. The weekend was busy here in Chicago, couple of shootings and a knifing. I’m told you are aware of two of these unfortunates, Detective?”

  “Yes. However, I wouldn’t use the word ‘unfortunates,’” Alfano said.

  Abrahamson nodded toward one of the gurneys. “That one’s a drowning. There’s some that appear to be drug overdoses, and a few yet to be determined. My job is to determine the cause of death, maybe the manner, and collect evidence. Not all the dead are here due to malicious activities, or murder. But the manner of their death must be determined. I am the last voice many of these people have.”

  Roberts staggered and bumped his hip against a gurney. A woman’s hand dropped out from under the sheet, a wedding ring still on her finger. Roberts stepped back and bent over, dry-heaving.

  “There’s a can over there, if you have to vomit,” Abrahamson told him. “Try not to. I’ve got enough to deal with today.”

  “My case?” Alfano said, watching Roberts.

  “Still on the slab. Follow me, and I’ll tell you what I know and what I don’t. But I’ll tell you up front, someone is trying to be funny—and I don’t like funny.”

  The detective and his sickly sidekick followed Abrahamson through a set of swinging double doors into a room that was significantly cooler than the rest of the hallways. One wall was a bank of refrigerator doors, each about two-by-two feet. Four marble tables were aligned in the room’s center. Various metal tools, stacks of towels, and other barbaric-looking pieces of equipment sat on shelves. To the uninformed, such as Adam Roberts, the room would appear to be a medieval torture chamber. A naked woman lay on the second table from the right; a towel draped across her midriff allowed the corpse some dignity.

  “That’s Kitty,” Roberts blurted between dry heaves. “My God, what have you done to her?”

  “Adam, this is an autopsied corpse. Dr. Abrahamson has investigated the body thoroughly to determine the cause of death. His work has led to many convictions of killers and has, occasionally, even surprised me with his results and findings.”

  “Thank you, Detective Alfano. Are you okay, Mr. Roberts?” the coroner asked.

  Roberts’s California tan had become as white as the corpse. “Yes, I guess I am. Good God, she didn’t deserve this.”

  “No one does, son,” the doc said.

  “Is this definitely Kitty Hill?” Alfano asked.

  “Yes,” Roberts whispered.

  “What did you find out?” Alfano said, going to stand next to the coroner at one long side of the exam table.

  “This will be more detailed in my report, but here goes. As I said, someone was trying to be funny, not ha-ha funny but screw-you funny. First, the scarf around her neck was not used to strangle her. She was already dead when that happened. As you can see, there are some abrasions but little bruising; the blood had been stilled. There are two bullet wounds to the chest, there and there, large caliber. One of the bullets is in the envelope on the counter—looks to be about a .32. I was surprised to find it; normally they both would have pierced the body. The other did go through the body; I’ve told Detective Flynn. She was shot at close range. There is gunpowder stippling around both entry points—almost point blank. One bullet would have been enough. Between the two, her heart was shredded. I’m guessing that the load in the bullet might have been compromised, less force.”

  Roberts turned and quickly walked to a sink and vomited.

  Both Abrahamson and Alfano waited fo
r the actor to recover. The doc looked at Alfano, a question on his face.

  “Please continue,” Alfano said as he watched Roberts. “And you, why don’t you go sit in the coroner’s office. I’ll be right there.”

  Roberts left the autopsy room.

  “There is some old needle scarring on the arm, nothing new. I would suggest that she was or possibly is a heroin addict, but I need to perform additional lab tests to confirm this. Whoever did this is a sick bastard. It was as if they wanted to toy with us, and I don’t like to be played with.”

  “And the cause of death?”

  “The two gunshots, though as I said, one would have been enough. I also found wine, most probably champagne, in her stomach, at least three glasses full.”

  “A shot to the heart. Possibly something significant there?” Alfano asked.

  There was a crash from down the hall as Roberts fell against an empty gurney and then dropped to the floor outside the office. Alfano and Abrahamson walked out and stood there for a moment looking down at the actor.

  “I’ll get the smelling salts,” the doc said.

  CHAPTER 5

  The glare of the late-afternoon sun shone through the front windshield of the Packard; Roberts sat in the passenger’s seat, his breathing labored and heavy.

  “One more time,” Alfano said as he held a glass vial under the actor’s nose. “I’ve still got a busy afternoon, and I have to get you back to the hotel. You need to be at the fair in three hours, and I do not want Mr. Melnik upset with me.”

  Roberts took a deep breath and coughed a few times. “Been a lot of years since someone stuck smelling salts under my nose—it was the Cal game. Got my bell rung. Ten minutes of that shit, and I was back in. It was the fourth quarter, scored twice. It’s something you never forget. Smells can bring that all back.”

  “You ready to go?” Alfano asked.

  “I was out before Doctor Abrahamson told us how she died.”

  “The gunshots. While sometimes obvious, the cause of death still needs his signature.”