Jimmy Parisi- A Chicago Homicide Trilogy

by Thomas Laird

  Jack nodded, and then we walked toward Merlin’s front door beneath the five-pointed, dimly lit star.

  When we walked in, no one looked over at us. They were all engrossed in whatever it was that they were talking about. There were several groups of them. The Goth girls were in the far right corner of the room. They were the four that we’d interviewed previously. But if they knew Jack and I were present, they gave no visual sign that they were aware of us.

  We walked over to the bar. Bliss wasn’t tending the slab tonight. It was an older biker-type. He asked us what we wanted. He knew we were cops. You could smell the wariness all over him. He was bigger than Leonard also. They had to have a gun stashed somewhere behind the bar — these kinds of saloons always did. I wondered if this guy was packing a sawed-off shotgun in a wooden slot, back there.

  ‘Where’s Leonard?’ I asked the biker-bartender.

  ‘Who the fuck’s Leonard?’ he shot back.

  ‘The guy who used to tend bar here,’ I said. ‘You know, the parolee who looks just like your younger fucking brother.’

  ‘You’re a cop, ain’t you,’ he said.

  ‘What’s your name, genius?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Wiley. Wiley Stokes.’

  ‘Wiley Stokes and Leonard Bliss. All in the same profession,’ I laughed.

  ‘Look, you don’t have to get a hard-on at me. What do you want?’

  ‘We want to talk to some of your patrons, that’s all,’ I explained.

  ‘Which one of my ... patrons?’

  ‘The ones who think they’re nephews of Count Dracula, Wiley. The loose motherbrothers who think that this full moon’s going to bring out the fangs in their faces, Wiley.’

  ‘I don’t know nothin’ about —’

  ‘This is a murder investigation, my man. And I’ll bet you share the same PO with brother Leonard Bliss. No?’

  ‘Man, you don’t have to yank my schwantz that hard ... They’re over there in the back. On the left. They’re the fry-outs who think they can turn into fuckin’ bats.’

  I nodded at Wiley. Then I slowly reached inside my jacket for the Nine. Jack put his hand on his weapon, also, before we turned away from the bartender.

  ‘Oh man, you ain’t gonna shoot —’

  ‘Not unless it’s you, bro,’ I warned him.

  He took a step back from the bar.

  ‘Just relax ... Nod your head toward the artillery you got behind the bar,’ I told him.

  He nodded toward the middle of the wooden slab. Jack walked slowly around the bar toward Wiley, and when my partner reached the barman, he looked, found the sawed-off, double-barrelled weapon. Then Jack cracked it open and removed the two slugs inside and pocketed them. He put the shotgun back where he found it, and then he circled back to me. His Nine was still in his palm, as was mine.

  ‘Keep very still, Wiley,’ I whispered loud enough for him to hear and nod in affirmation.

  I peered over to that far left hand corner. This place was murkier than just ‘dimly lit.’

  Jack and I walked over to a trio of young men sitting at a round table. There were no drinks on that surface of wood before them. The one that Jack thought might be Samsa was sitting with his back to us. Jack gestured with his right thumb toward the black-clad man just as we neared them.

  ‘Why don’t you turn around very very slowly,’ Jack said softly to the figure with his back to us.

  The other two vampires started to rise, but I gestured for them with the barrel of my piece to sit back down.

  The unseen member of the trio didn’t turn as Jack had ordered him to.

  I took hold of his chair and yanked him around.

  It wasn’t Samsa, but I could see how Jack thought it might be The Count. In this dark, from a distance, out in the street this guy could pass for our boy. He stood up when I took hold of his arm.

  ‘If you’re holding, don’t even think about it,’ I warned him. ‘I will shoot you dead, right in front of your boyfriends.’

  ‘What do you want?’ the pale-faced Samsa lookalike wanted to know.

  He was the same height and the same build. Even facially he could’ve been Samsa’s younger brother. This guy wasn’t twenty-one, but I wasn’t here to card anyone for Wiley.

  I patted him down and found that he was clean — no weapons. Jack did the same with his two partners.

  ‘Let’s take a walk outside,’ I told them.

  The Goth girls were now fully aware of our intrusion into their domain.

  ‘Hello, ladies. Sorry, but we’re not on your dance card tonight. Maybe some other time,’ I smiled over at them.

  They weren’t even a little amused with me.

  ‘Let’s go outside, gentlemen.’

  ‘Why? We didn’t do anything,’ the Samsa clone complained.

  ‘Either you take a walk outside with us for just a few minutes’ pleasant conversation, or I will roll you three fucks up for the drugs I know you must be packing on you somewhere. You still want to stand here and bitch, motherfucker?’ I told him, my nose maybe an inch from his white snotlocker.

  He backed off with his next ‘face’.

  Jack and I walked them outside, past a relieved Wiley who wouldn’t get to blow any of these young wannabe vampires in half tonight.

  Outside Merlin’s the night air was dank, even though we were deeply into April, now.

  ‘You guys know some guy named Samsa? Maxim Samsa?’ I asked the three.

  No one even blinked. Jack stood behind them. Neither of us was displaying firepower.

  My Nine and Jack’s were back in the holsters.

  ‘I know at least one of y’all is under age. I’m not here to roust you on a beef like that. I’m here trying to get some information on a series of homicides — and one attempted murder. You know this guy, if you’re part of his crew, I want you to know you’re going to go down with Samsa. You’re on his crew, you’re at least an accessory to murder. And that means very serious time. You won’t be able to go play Count Dracula on the full moon anymore. Instead you’ll become some inmate’s bitch for a very long stretch in a public hellhole. I know Samsa never explained to any one of you the downside of associating with a murderer. I don’t give a shit if you’re in this for laughs or because you’re getting even with mommy, I don’t give a fuck what your story is ... If you are not an “associate” of Maxim Samsa, then you can spread the word. Ain’t going to be no safe port or harbour for Count Fuckface. I’m going to have him, and if you don’t speak up now and I find out later you were running with this prick, I’ll send you down. Serious down.’

  They didn’t answer.

  ‘Let me see the IDs,’ Jack demanded.

  They knew the next thing to happen was that we’d pat them down for funny pharmaceuticals.

  The deadringer for The Count’s name was Matthew Brine.

  ‘All right ... Fucking okay,’ the Samsa lookalike blurted out.

  We looked over at him.

  ‘But these two don’t know dick. Get them outta here, all right?’

  I nodded toward the door of Merlin’s, and his two pale-faced, associate undeads walked back into the bar.

  The lookalike turned to Jack and me.

  ‘Samsa ain’t got no associates. He does his thing on his own. Look, I ain’t no partner to what he does about the blood. He does that solo. When someone wants a vial to do ritual — he’s the guy you see.’

  ‘How do you contact him?’ Jack asked.

  ‘You ain’t gonna use my name about any of this, are you?’

  ‘Not unless you start stuttering, asshole,’ I told him.

  ‘Look. There’s this underground newspaper. Real small. Basement publishing, you know?’

  ‘Yeah? What’s it called?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘Legion of the Undead,’ he answered.

  ‘Where do I get my copy?’ I asked.

  ‘You got to go to a ’zine store on Algonquin and Wright. It’s called Tatters and Rags.’

  ‘When do th
ey come out with this newsletter?’ I asked.

  ‘Every Friday night. After midnight. Only a few people even know about it, man, so don’t go using —’

  ‘We’ll keep you anonymous, Junior — unless I find out you’ve been lying to us or passing bogus information. How well you know Samsa?’

  ‘I spent some time with him at St Charles. Nobody really knew that motherfucker. He was way beyond the buoys then. Now, Christ, now he’s mid-Atlantic.’

  ‘You be on your way now, young bloodsucker,’ I smiled. ‘Fly. Fly away.’

  There was genuine hatred on his face. Some blood had entered his cheeks, and for a moment, just before he turned from us and joined his brethren, he almost looked like just another member of this sad-assed human race.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Earvin the Tactical cop had his eye on our girl Joellyn.

  ‘She been keepin’ her distance from the main mothabrotha, Lieutenant,’ Earvin smiled. ‘She been playin’ it real cosy.’

  ‘That’s because Riad’s got someone on the pad downtown, here, with us,’ I answered. We were sitting in my office, but Earvin was standing by my window. Someday when I retired, I was going to rent an apartment right on the Lake, and all I was going to do all day long was watch the sand and the water and the sky and the people who dotted all that landscape.

  Earvin nodded. It was well-known by all the cops on the CPD that some of our brethren were dirty. It was that way on any big city force.

  ‘I ain’t talked to no one but you and Jack, here,’ he nodded at my partner. ‘I didn’t even speak of it to my own Boss, Lieutenant McMahon.’

  ‘If she’s his teenaged, virgin squeeze, he won’t be able to keep her at arm’s length for long,’ I said. ‘Keep an eyeball on the two of them. He’ll have to get his root wet, sooner than later.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Lieutenant. Because I think your Captain is gonna pull the plug if something don’t happen in the real near future.’

  Earvin took one more look out of my window, turned to us, smiled, and then departed.

  ‘He’s been running loose all these years, Jimmy,’ Jack reminded me. ‘He isn’t free because he’s careless.’

  I nodded in affirmation.

  Jack watched me.

  ‘I know. Doc told me about Celia Dacy before he went on leave. He said you might take this case a little too personally.’

  ‘He’s right.’

  ‘Don’t you think we ought to cut ourselves loose from it?’

  ‘No. I don’t. And I’ll tell you why, Jack. It’s because of the very thing we just got done reminding Earvin about. There are more than a few motherfuckers with their hands slimed with Riad’s blood money. I know all about that shit because my family owns some of the members of this police force. You know the Ciccios?’

  Jack nodded. Everyone knew them.

  ‘There are some people around here who don’t care if the money is guinea or black or fucking Bulgarian, Jack. They’ll get on their backs, spread their legs and squeal like a porker for a couple of fazools. So I’m telling you we can’t trust anyone else to speak for Arthur Ransom and Dilly Beaumont. And all the other stiffs Abu Riad’s put on our meat wagon.’

  He watched my eyes. He never looked away. It was one of the reasons I had complete faith in Jack Wendkos. Call it body language. I call it character. Something my young partner wasn’t deficient in.

  ‘He still better reach out to her pretty soon, Jimmy, or the Captain will short-circuit the whole fucking scenario.’

  It was my turn to look out the window at the Lake.

  *

  We checked out the bookstore where they sold Legion of the Undead. It was a magazine — they called them ’zines in this oddity of a bookstore called Tatters and Rags — that I was unaware of. I’d never seen it next to Time or Newsweek, but then my knowledge of periodicals was severely limited. I read the newspapers and not much else that wasn’t case-related.

  The owner’s name was T. Johnson. I asked him what the initial stood for.

  ‘What initial, man?’

  He was skinny and pale, just like many of his clientele. He was over six feet with very bad posture. It seemed as if he had a spine problem, but I didn’t ask him. He’d probably answer, ‘What spine problem, man?’ His face was pocked by old scars from acne, it appeared. He hadn’t practiced hygiene in some time, by the ripe odour emanating from his stained, black T-shirt. There were salt stains under the arms. He was a real charmer.

  ‘When does Legion of the Undead hit your stands?’ Jack queried.

  ‘Never heard of it,’ the ripe stinker lied.

  Jack went across his counter and grabbed a handful of black T-shirt. There were only three or four customers in here with us, and they were all entranced by something on T. Johnson’s shelves in the back of the store.

  ‘You don’t have to get like physical, man,’ the stooped shop owner complained.

  ‘I’m becoming very angry with your responses, man,’ Jack smiled at him with a handful of grungy T-shirt still clutched in his right hand.

  ‘Okay, okay. Let me go, huh?’

  Jack released him.

  ‘Yeah. We carry that mag.’

  ‘When’s it due?’ Jack continued.

  ‘Like tonight ... but it comes out real late. Like after midnight. There aren’t many copies — three or four in here — and someone always buys them out in like a half hour after they arrive.’

  ‘These customers ... they’re a bit unique in lifestyle?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, they’re vampires, man.’

  He said it so off-handedly that I nearly laughed in his face.

  ‘Vampires?’ Jack scoffed.

  ‘No joke, man. These dudes are not to be fucked with. They’re like a cult ... and I could get fucked up just telling you about them.’

  ‘No one’s going to drop a dime on you, Tee,’ I told him.

  ‘I’m not worried about you, Officer Sir.’

  He looked at a few of his spooked-out customers toward the back.

  ‘The fuckin’ walls have ears, as they say,’ the proprietor said.

  ‘They ever hassled you?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No ... but I just sell their rag. And it’s hardly worth it, man, because like I said, it only comes down to a couple copies a month. It’s not like these motherfuckers intend to go mainstream, like Playboy or Screw. You know, the slicks, man.’

  ‘What are these ’zines about?’ I asked.

  ‘Vampire shit. Don’t look so amused, man,’ he told me. ‘These people take it for real. Blood rituals and shit.’

  ‘I know. The guy we’re looking for supplies the blood,’ I told him.

  ‘They can’t, like, use animal blood or even blood from the Red Cross, say. It’s gotta be fresh shit, from a real victim.’

  ‘I know. You have any idea what a pint of that kind of blood goes for?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’m just tellin’ you what the magazine’s all about, man. I’m not a member of their fuckin’ tribe, dude.’

  Jack grabbed him by the filthy T-shirt again.

  ‘How much does a pint of the real thing go for, jackass?’

  My partner was literally in his face.

  ‘Five. Five “K”,’ he answered.

  ‘Five thousand a pint?’ I asked as Jack released him.

  ‘That’s the word. From the ’zine. I wouldn’t know from experience. I ain’t into that shit, like I told you.’

  ‘Who’s got money like that for a drink of the real thing?’ I asked.

  ‘These are bored, upper-crust motherfuckers who have odd tastes, Officer Sir.’

  ‘You call me Officer Sir one more time and your nards are gonna ascend back where they were before all that crap on your face came into bloom.’

  T. Johnson put a hand on his acne scars.

  ‘That’s kind of insulting, Off ... Lieutenant Parisi. Sir.’

  ‘Who are these upper-crust folks?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I don’t know their na
mes ... but they’ll be in tonight for the ’zine. After midnight, like fuckin’ clockwork. I never see them, other than when that rag comes into the store.’

  ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘Two, usually. A man and a woman.’

  ‘And how do you know they’re wealthy?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Their ride. It’s a Beamer one time and a brand new black Jag, the other times. Come to think of it, the Beamer’s black too. Everything about them is black. Except for the colour of their skins.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘The guy ... he’s like an albino. Think he has like pink fuckin’ eyes. Scary son of a bitch, man. She’s not a lot less strange, neither. Platinum blonde. Good dye job. No fuckin’ roots, you know ... but they dress in nothin’ but black. Top to bottom. All fuckin’ black.’

  One of T. Johnson’s customers made her way to the counter toward the three of us.

  The proprietor rang up about six sales. They were all magazines that seemed to be about the black arts — Satanism, blood ritual, shape-shifting and vampirism.

  When she looked up at me and Jack, I saw she wore black eyeshadow and black lipstick. Her face was covered with white powder to enhance the bloodless appearance. Her fingernails were painted the same black as the rest of her cosmetics. She smiled, and I saw the extraordinarily long canine teeth she sported.

  They were fangs. You could see the slight bulge in her lips when she stopped smiling or growling at us, or whatever it was she was doing.

  She turned away quickly, and then she walked out the door.

  ‘No blow jobs from her, man,’ T. Johnson declared.

  I had to laugh, and Jack couldn’t refrain either.

  ‘She’s not the type who’d be lookin’ for the usual body fluid, if she went down on you, man.’

  ‘You have a very extensive vocabulary, you know that, cheesedick?’ Jack retorted.

  ‘Thank you, man,’ he smiled.

  When we saw what was left of his teeth, I was sorry he ever lifted his lips to give us a peek.

  ‘It’s the same two every time this Legion of the Undead comes out?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. The same two. Every time ... I get the feel that the two of them are very connected people, Lieutenant. I don’t just mean their big bucks. I got the impression they were tight with important people. I don’t know how they could be livin’ that kind of lifestyle without someone like you pullin’ their plugs — unless they were joined at the hip to some players.’