Chicago Boogie Woogie

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Do you think there was money or something else inside?” Alfano asked him.

  “A reasonable guess is money. The number I showed you was from Miss Durant’s bank, the one across Wilshire.”

  “You might also check the trunk of her yellow Packard.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “I like your story,” Alfano said to Durant. “You played your part exceptionally well, maybe worthy of an Oscar. Except it’s all a fucking lie.”

  “Fuck you, Alfano. I liked you, you fuck like a pro, energetic, involved. I even thought about offering you a job out here. Handsome adventurous old guy, young girls . . . that shit makes lots of money in this industry.”

  “I’d want a piece of that,” Candy said. “Ouch, that fucking hurt.”

  “Another word, and I’ll kick in your teeth,” Suarez said, removing his shoe from the vicinity of her left kidney.

  “See, Antonio, you already have fans,” Durant said. “But there’s a halo around you; you just fucking glow. I’d be wasting my time, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes. You’re a Boy Scout.”

  Candy sniggered.

  Alfano also heard a chuckle from Suarez, which made him uncomfortable. More cops had arrived and were outside the door. One of them was Detective Tuttle.

  Alfano watched Durant look past Suarez and the uniforms to where Tuttle stood in the doorway. Her expression changed only slightly, but Alfano knew a tell when he saw one.

  “Hi, Gil,” he said and turned back to Durant. “That’s all bullshit, isn’t it, Maxime? Maybe your bit about Melnik and Kitty in Chicago is true, maybe it’s not—right now, we’ll just leave it lying on the table. Maybe Melnik, like you said, believed that Roberts, for some reason, did shoot Kitty. What I am thinking is that Melnik and Kitty had meetings in Chicago, meetings you weren’t involved in. Meetings with the money people you’ve been doing the bag work for. Melnik needed a lot of money for his movie and was there to get it. Maybe that farce you described in Melnik’s office with Roberts was also real, to a point—but the only witness is dead, which is convenient. Maybe that’s why all of you came back to LA in a hurry, because Melnik had a bag full of money—yeah, that might be it, too. And he also had the gun. It comes down to the gun.”

  “There’s no way to prove any of this—no fucking way,” Durant spat out.

  “It was you, Maxime, who picked up the gun after Roberts knocked it out of Melnik’s hand, and it was you who shot Melnik twice, point blank in the chest. It was you who convinced Roberts to keep his mouth shut—maybe you told him about the money, even gave him some to keep him quiet. Then you came here and hid the gun in the hidey-hole. You thought it was safe, and since you were paying Kitty’s rent, you believed no one would find it. Roberts didn’t know where you hid it, I’m certain about that. You would come back later and move it to a safer place or destroy it. However, you couldn’t have Roberts holding Melnik’s death over you, and you couldn’t let him keep any of the money. So, last night, you went to his house, drugged him and his boyfriend, and rolled them into the pool—all to shut Roberts up. Then you conveniently cleaned out his safe—after all, it was your money, all of it. All neat and pretty.”

  “You can’t prove any of that.”

  “We have your fingerprints on the gun,” Suarez said to Durant. “Melnik’s, too, but funny thing, Roberts’s fingerprints aren’t on the gun. It looks like he never touched the revolver. The fingerprints on the broken glass are yours, too, which puts you at Roberts’s pool, and your fingerprints are on the chair by Roberts’s safe. We have eyewitnesses who saw you on the street outside Roberts’s house that night. You are going down for three murders, Miss Durant. And I’m sure Detective Alfano wants to pin the murder of Kitty Hill on you, too.”

  “She was the only good thing in this whole fucked-up town,” Durant said. “I didn’t kill Kitty. I loved her.”

  “Sure you did. We always kill the things we love,” Alfano said as he caught the handcuffs Tuttle pitched to him.

  CHAPTER 27

  Alfano, Tuttle, and Suarez stood on the dead grass outside Kitty Hill’s apartment. They watched as Durant and Longacre were trundled into the back seat of an LA patrol car. Durant took one long look at Alfano before the door was slammed shut.

  Suarez grinned and said, “You’re good, Alfano. Most of that was bullshit.” Tuttle agreed.

  “Good bullshit is based on real shit, and this crime is plastered with it,” Alfano said. “She didn’t flinch, even at the part about Roselli and the mob. I’ve been hearing about money going to Los Angeles from Chicago, so the connection makes sense—and she didn’t blink—interesting. That’s a bone for you to gnaw on, Detective. When the coroner finishes processing the bodies and confirms the fingerprints on that glass you slipped in your pocket, you can charge her with the murders of Melnik, Roberts, and his boyfriend. She might get the rope for Roberts, but who knows? With a good attorney, she could even skate. It will make the Fatty Arbuckle trial in San Francisco look like a cheap circus.”

  “Are you going to ask for extradition for Durant? She’s the one who obviously killed Kitty Hill,” Tuttle said.

  “She didn’t kill Hill, and neither did Melnik or Roberts,” Alfano said.

  “What? It sure as hell sounded like you had one of them pegged for the killing,” Suarez said.

  “It’s a matter of the gun,” Alfano said to Suarez. “The ballistics report you sent to my sergeant is being processed. Sergeant McDunnah is a diligent man”—he looked at the LA detective—“you know him, Tuttle.”

  “Truly diligent, Detective. I’ve known the boyo since we were lads in Bridgeport. No finer man, no finer a diligent man—and God-fearing he is.”

  Alfano smiled. “I talked to him this morning,” he said. “McDunnah tracked down the ballistics reports and confirmed that Katherine Mooney, aka Kitty Hill, was shot and killed with the same weapon that killed Hines Melnik.”

  “That proves it. Melnik brought it to California when they returned, right? Then he was shot by the same gun,” Suarez said.

  “There’s a twist, Detective. It is also the same gun used in at least a dozen other gangland shootings in Chicago and nearby suburbs. As you well know, a Colt Police Positive .32 revolver is an executioner’s weapon; there’s more blood on that gun than on the hands of Lady Macbeth.”

  “Are you saying that gun was in Chicago for the last ten years—maybe longer?” Suarez said. “Maybe Melnik bought it from someone while he was there, or a gangster, one of his mob buddies, gave it to him.”

  “All probable, but Mac dug deeper and found the honeypot, such as it is. Ten years ago, Katherine Mooney’s husband and her brother were gunned down after they left a bar in Bridgeport. She was with them; they were celebrating, as Kitty had found out that she was pregnant. Life was good for a trio of two-bit gangsters, hustlers, rumrunners, and dance hall entertainers. The story takes a sad turn when they crossed Capone, and he had them eliminated. Kitty was also hit; she lost the baby. When she was well enough, she slipped out of Chicago and came here. Whether she knew Melnik before she arrived here in California, or meeting him was a fluke, or an accident, or a bit of luck, I don’t know. But she built a life here, more like a California criminal enterprise. She returned to Chicago for two purposes: the film promotion, and to meet a gang contact with Melnik. Someone in Chicago recognized her, and they knew she knew who they were: the killer of her brother and husband. He finished that ten-year-old contract in that room of the Palmer House.”

  “Damn. That’s quite a story,” Suarez said.

  “Sadly, a Chicago story. That’s why I got out with my family,” Tuttle said. “Too much temptation and evil in that town.”

  “Be careful, Gil, LA is getting its own reputation,” Suarez said. He asked when Alfano was leaving.

  “The hotel clerk checked the trains for me; there’s one around seven tomorrow night. I want to stop by Sierra Films in the morning. They owe me for a few days’ work. I need to cash in the airline ticket. I a
m not flying back.”

  “I’d do that in a second. What a way to travel,” Suarez said. “Flying up there with the angels, seeing the whole countryside under you. It must be something.”

  “All I can see is crashing into the ground, a ball of fire, me in a thousand pieces,” Tuttle added.

  “I’m leaning toward Tuttle on this one, Suarez,” Alfano said. “Besides, after the last five days, I need a vacation. I can use a couple days on a train for myself.”

  ✥✥✥

  After a dinner of martinis, spaghetti, veal piccata, cannoli, and wonderful California wines, Tuttle offered to drive Alfano back to his hotel.

  “You got anything this good in Chicago?” Suarez said.

  “Don’t start, Suarez,” Tuttle said.

  “There’s a few places. When you get to Chicago, I’ll take you,” Alfano said.

  “A deal.”

  They said goodbye to Suarez at the curb in front of Perino’s restaurant on Wilshire.

  The day had been hot, and now warm air blew through the open windows of Tuttle’s plain-wrap as they drove down Santa Monica Boulevard for what Alfano hoped was the last time. The inside of Kitty’s apartment had been stifling, almost oppressive. He was glad to be out of there. Capturing Longacre was a bonus, though he wasn’t sure what her part in all this was—babysitter, tired actress, ex-hooker, maybe a hybrid. Suarez would figure it out. Since Durant was arrested in LA, Tuttle had agreed to turn the two of them over to Beverly Hills. Alfano was sure that Tuttle did not want the headache or the possible exposure.

  Alfano and Tuttle said their goodbyes standing out in front of the Georgian. The sun was a finger’s width above the horizon.

  “I could put you in a lot of trouble, Gil,” Alfano said. “You know that. But what you do here has nothing to do with me.”

  “What are you talking about, boyo?” Tuttle said.

  “Your part in all this, your connections to Chicago and the Outfit.”

  “The hell you say.”

  “You are the filler, the glue, the gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe,” Alfano continued. “Sure, Melnik and Hill met with the money man in Chicago. That’s why Spats Lanigan was in the meeting with the mayor, Melnik, Durant, and Roberts. Lanigan is Frank Nitti’s houseboy, the one with an ear to goings-on in city hall. They needed someone out here to be on the receiving end of the cash when it went west. Sure, it was Melnik this trip, but not every time. And Lanigan’s from your street, Tuttle. You two knew each other from Bridgeport. When McDunnah heard that Lanigan was at the meeting, he told me about you. Mac said, ‘If Lanigan’s in the meeting and you are going to LA, be careful, because as sure as there is a heaven, Gil Tuttle’s got his finger in the pie.’ I know he gave you a call. What I don’t know is why the fuck you sapped me when I got here.”

  The answer took a long time.

  “It’s always that fucken Mick, even when we was kids,” Tuttle said at last.

  “That’s not helpful. What the hell did Mac do that got me whacked on the head?”

  “He was dating m’sister, Celeste, back in the day. That’s long before Moira. They split up, I blamed him for taking advantage of her, so’s I was pissed. Then out of the blue he calls and wants a favor. I got mad all over again. You were here, and Mac wasn’t . . . I’m sorry; it was stupid.”

  “Damn, you fucking Irish carry a grudge longer than Italians. And yes, it was stupid. Any other day, if I weren’t so tired, I might have shot you dead. Jesus Christ, Tuttle.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Right now, sorry is not enough. I just want to get out of this fucking town. Tuttle, you do what you do, I don’t fucking care. Just keep it away from Mac and me. Got it?”

  A wry smile came over Tuttle’s face.

  Alfano slugged him with his left hand, knocking the Irishman to the sidewalk. Tuttle rolled over to his side and gingerly propped himself on an elbow. “I deserved that. I’m such a fuck.”

  “Yes, you are.” Alfano shook his hand, trying to remove the sting.

  “Smart guy, using your left.”

  “Smart guys don’t sap friends. And one more thing, if Maxime Durant has an accident, falls down a flight of stairs, walks in front of a truck, or in any way dies, I am holding you responsible. And I will make sure the wrath of God comes down on you.”

  Tuttle paused. It was one of those pregnant pauses, one that was looking for the father that had skipped town. “I don’t know about all that, Detective. I never seen her before all this shit.”

  Alfano lit a cigarette and watched Tuttle drive up the street half a block and turn onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

  “Hi, sailor, need some company?” a sweet voice said from behind him. Alfano slowly turned and faced Gloria.

  “Company would be nice. It’s been a very traumatic and wicked day,” he answered.

  “I’ve heard. There’s a lot of rumors at the studio—even made the evening newspapers. Dead actors, connections to the pornography business, an actress arrested for murder; yes, a wicked day. I’ve seen Detective Suarez’s name all over the story.”

  “I’d expect nothing less—and you can probably believe the rumors.”

  “Your name wasn’t mentioned, not even a remark or comment about a Chicago detective or anything. Like it was a one-man operation, and the famous Dick Tracy from Chicago was left out.”

  “He and Tuttle can fight it out for the medals. Me, I’m going home.”

  “I figured that. That’s why I’m here, to say goodbye. David will pick us up tomorrow and take you to the airport.”

  “I’m taking the Santa Fe Limited.”

  “Then the La Grande train station it is. I’ve never been to Chicago. Care for some company?”

  “I’d love some, but not this trip. I intend to get twelve hours of sleep paired with twelve hours of nothing but the bar car. I’ll be back at my desk on Friday morning. Honestly, I can’t wait.”

  “By my watch, you have about eighteen hours with nothing to do. Any ideas?”

  “I’m guessing you do.”

  “Detective Anthony Alfano, you have no idea how good I am at killing eighteen hours.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Friday morning, after his train pulled out of the Kansas City station, Alfano comfortably watched the fall foliage of Missouri race by from his compartment, a compartment he’d only left to eat and drink or pick up drinks. In six hours, he would be walking through Dearborn station. He’d been gone exactly ten days, though it felt like a month—no, more like a lifetime. He honestly believed now that California could do that to you, to anyone. It was enticing, magical, beguiling, perverse, even obscene. Yet, it drew you in, with a promising and magnetic pull; he fought every come-hither and come-back-to-me thought that rolled through his head. And Gloria Downs was one of the hardest to forget. Everything about her was right; everything about them was wrong.

  He was now certain who the killer of Katherine Mooney was. Her murder was less than three weeks old; if he hadn’t gone to California, the case would never have been solved, of that he was certain. Maybe the ballistics on the bullets removed from Kitty’s body would have done the job, but he was certain that they would not have looked at the past Chicago killings, made the right connections, put it all together, and wrapped it with a bow. Maybe that was something about California he could live with.

  Surfing, Gloria called it, “riding the waves.” Someday they would write songs about this strange recreation, she said. A bunch of guys floating on the sea, killing time, being away from their girlfriends, wives, maybe their kids. All a waste to Alfano’s way of thinking. His shoulders still itched from the slight sunburn he got that day on the beach. The memory of Gloria slathering baby oil over his back; he could live with that thought through the coming winter.

  Four people were dead due to greed, money, and sex—so California, so Hollywood. Sure, some neighborhoods were like those in Chicago, but mostly not. He was still pissed he hadn’t gone back to the Apex to hear the Ellin
gton band. There was still jazz in Chicago, still time before the fair closed at the end of October. He wondered how Deacon was doing. Ten days gone, ten days that felt like two years; he scratched his itching shoulders against the hard wood paneling of his compartment.

  On the way to the train station, he and Gloria had picked up sandwiches at Bay Cities Deli, where he wished Tony DiTomasi well. They hadn’t met up to talk about the old days. The sandwiches DiTomasi made lasted Alfano until Peach Springs, Arizona.

  Gloria had told him about a new book by Erle Stanley Gardner, an author a friend of hers recommended. He picked up a copy at the La Grande station newsstand; it now lay dog-eared on the narrow bed in his sleeping compartment. He liked the writing and the character, Perry Mason. Mason wasn’t like the wimpish lawyers Alfano knew in Chicago; the man was hard-core, uncompromising. Alfano had known of the writer Gardner from the pulp magazines his apartment landing neighbor, Alice Kowalski, would pass on. She left copies of the Black Mask, Argosy, and True Detective Mysteries for him outside his door. The Perry Mason story was good, the writing better; he’d look for another book—if there was another.

  “Ten minutes to Chicago, ten minutes,” a loud voice brayed from the corridor. “Ten minutes!”

  Alfano collected his few belongings and stuffed them in his grip, the book on top. He slipped on his suitcoat and set his fedora. The interior of the Dearborn station was packed. It didn’t take a detective to see that many in the crowd were members of the American Legion. The American Legionnaires were the latest convention in town, and with the fair, another small windfall for the city.

  After he walked out the front door of the station onto Polk Street, he stood in the chill fall air—it was a godsend. He breathed deeply; the aromas from the restaurant next to the train station plucked the strings of his stomach. The Tribune picked up at the newsstand, set tight under his arm, declared in two-inch-high letters the conviction of Chicago ex-detective sergeant Harry Lang for the failed shooting of Capone’s capo, Frank Nitti. The shooting had been in the news since last December. For some unknown reason, Sergeant Lang had thought it necessary to walk into Nitti’s office and shoot him. He failed to kill the gangster, only wounded him. There were some, possibly many, in the Chicago Police Department who believed that the February assassination attempt on Franklin Roosevelt, in Miami, wasn’t directed at the president-elect, but at Chicago’s mayor, Anton Cermak, who was traveling with him. They also believed that it was Cermak who had ordered Nitti’s shooting. Alfano had his own thoughts about the whole Nitti misadventure. The one thing he was privately sure of, if he’d been the guy to go into Nitti’s office, he would have been the only one to come out.