Tales of the Bagman

by B C Bell

  “You sang a great set in there,” Crankshaft said. “Lady doesn’t learn to sing like that playing in clubs like this.”

  “You got that right.” She inhaled, flicked the ash off her cigarette with a mocha-colored finger. “But like the man says, ‘you got to make ‘em cry in their beer, so they’ll buy another round.’”

  “You mind if I have one of those?” Crankshaft said, pointing at the cigarette.

  “No… No, not at all. Here. Funny, it’s usually men offering me cigarettes.”

  “Yeah, but real men bum all theirs from women.”

  She laughed again.

  “You ever been to Chicago before?” Crankshaft said.

  “No, first time.”

  “Well, you have to go down to Maxwell Street. That’s where people learn to sing the blues like that around here.”

  “I’d have to get some gentleman to accompany me, you know.” She smiled at him.

  Crankshaft smiled back and introduced himself as Antoine Jones. Coco had tomorrow night off. It was a date. Crankshaft gave her one of his business cards to let her know he was on the up-and-up, and they talked for almost ten minutes.

  Then the gunshot went off. A scream flew out the door followed by burlesque dancers, croupiers and assorted men in suits.

  “You want to get out of here?” Crankshaft asked her, closing the stage door.

  “No, I have to stay to get paid. Gary, the manager, will be looking for me.”

  Mac burst through the back door, running for the alley. Crankshaft barely jumped out of the way in time.

  “C’mon, Crank. We gotta get out of here.”

  “We?”

  Hunts exited, almost sprinting past them. He stopped and grabbed Crankshaft by the shoulder. “Cops!”

  “You work for the city,” Crankshaft said.

  “I know.” Hunts answered. “I gotta run around the alley and come back in the front of the club to get the story. News can only travel so fast.”

  Coco Blue stood dumbfounded, slowly backing away from the three of them.

  “It’s OK, Miss Blue. He does work for the city,” Crankshaft said. “I’ll explain it all tomorrow if you’ll let me.”

  “Only because you called me ‘Miss,’” she said. “In front of the club, six o’clock?”

  “It’s a date,” Crankshaft answered. “Armor, suit and tie.”

  She almost laughed again, turning her head to and fro, and then looked upward like she knew this was all part of some comedy of the absurd.

  “Come on, c’mon,” Mac said, tugging at Crankshaft’s elbow and losing the tug-o-war. Hunts was already halfway down the opposite end of the alley.

  “What the hell happened in there?” Crankshaft said, as they hit the sidewalk on Fitzhugh.

  “Somebody shot the drummer,” Mac said.

  Crankshaft stopped in his tracks.

  ***

  When Coco Blue peeked in the back door, all she saw was the empty hallway. But she could hear the remaining shills still pretending to run a gentleman’s club, meaning that if the police weren’t already there, they were on their way. Gary, the manager, was answering questions, probably talking to a cop already. She opened the door to her dressing room and sat down, grateful she hadn’t been onstage during the shooting. She might not have to talk to the cops. Heck, she might even get off early. And it looked like a lot of people had been there, so her take of the door would probably still be pretty high. Too bad about “Sticks,” though. He may have been a snake, but he didn’t deserve that.

  She looked in the mirror and slowly removed her white feathered headband, fluffing her hair. She’d wash up and change, then go outside. If the cops wanted to talk to her then that was fine. At least she had her own dressing room and didn’t have to share. The burlesque girls weren’t too bad, but it was still nice to have some privacy.

  She reached behind her back and unzipped her gown. She had begun to pull the strap down over her shoulder when she saw something move behind her in the mirror. A man with a face like a shark—a white man—with shoulders like a train trestle. The top part of one of his ears was missing, and there was a scar on his cheek from the knife that had done it.

  He wrapped a hand around her throat and shoved an automatic into her temple.

  “Don’t make a sound and I might let you live.”

  Coco’s legs thrashed in the air.

  He had picked her up with one hand.

  Chapter III

  Breaking and Entering

  Since they had taken Hunts’s car to the club, Mac and Crankshaft took a streetcar back to the garage. Mac told Crankshaft about his investigation, and Crankshaft made a comment about robbing the dead; he hadn’t mentioned that Sticks Stone was his brother.

  Back at the garage, Mac promptly sat behind the desk and tossed everything in his pockets on top of it. Crankshaft sat on the other side, actually interested for once. They had a matchbook, some business cards, and two keys. The matchbook was from a cigar store on Ashland, most likely closed at this hour—they would have to follow that up tomorrow. Most of the business cards were from New York, most of them for pawn shops. The last one was for The Sheffield House, a hotel just down the street from Wrigley Field where visiting teams sometimes stayed for road games. One of the keys was the kind used to tighten the heads on a drum kit; the other had the number 403 printed on the top of it.

  “Which car you want to take?” Mac said.

  Crankshaft pulled a set of keys out of his pocket, left the shack, and pulled up in a ’29 De Soto. He’d bought it cheap from somebody who’d lost all their money on the stock exchange. Since he’d suped it up, it was the fastest car on the lot. In five minutes they were parked in front of The Sheffield House.

  “You comin’, Crank?”

  “Breaking and entering? You’re kidding, right?”

  “There’s no breaking here! Just entering. I’ve got the key,” Mac said, holding it up.

  “That’s OK,” Crankshaft said, “Besides, something’s not right here, this is a ‘white only’ hotel.”

  “We’ll talk civil rights later, Crank. Right now I’ve got a case to investigate.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. Why would a black drummer have keys to a white only hotel room?”

  “Maybe he had to deliver a—” Mac shrugged his shoulders “—a drumming telegram or something.”

  “That’s cute,” Crankshaft said. “You just going to wave your way in there with that Tom Mix badge of yours again?”

  “For your information, it’s worked every time I’ve used it.”

  “And how many times is that?”

  Mac hesitated, shrugged one shoulder, “Once, back at the club tonight.” He stepped out onto the sidewalk and smiled as he nodded at the doorman.

  The bellboy stood up when he walked in, made a face when he saw Mac didn’t have any bags, and sat back down again. The man at the desk smiled politely and said:

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Mac didn’t hesitate this time. “I’ve got a delivery for room 401.”

  “We’ll be glad to take it for him,” the desk manager said.

  Mac made the same face the bellboy had. He hadn’t even thought that far ahead. “Oh… Sorry, it’s paperwork, he has to sign for it.”

  “We can sign for our clientele. I’ll simply put the letter in his box.” The desk manager pointed to the wooden compartments in the wall behind him with his thumb.

  Mac started to say it was very personal, and ask if he could just slide it under the door, but then he realized the bellboy or the house detective would probably follow him upstairs. The desk manager lowered one eyebrow and began to look at him as if something was wrong.

  “Tell ya what, I’ll just come back in
a little while,” Mac said, smiling, and exited as quickly as he could. He walked under the decorative awning in front of the hotel, hitting himself in the head with the palm of his hand and muttering, “Stupid, stupid, stupid… amateur, stupid dumbhead… If you’d broken in they would’ve seen your face…” He was pretty sure he had stopped talking to himself before Crankshaft saw him and he stepped back into the car.

  “What happened?” Crankshaft said.

  “Pull around back. We’re breakin’ in.”

  Crankshaft tried not to laugh. After he pulled the De Soto into the back alley and shut off the lights, he put on a serious face. “How will you know which room it is?”

  It was Mac’s turn to smile. “You think this is the first time I’ve ever broken into The Sheffield House? I love this hotel—used to pay my rent. Odd numbered rooms are on that side. I’ll be in the second one from the left.”

  Crankshaft nodded. Mac headed for the fire escape.

  He climbed the first four floors mumbling to himself the whole way, and then remembered the ground floor was the lobby and didn’t count. So he had to climb to the fifth, still mumbling, “You think this kinda thing happens to The Shadow? …G-8…Sam Spade, even…”

  He stopped and quietly listened at the window for a second. It was locked, but that was no problem for an ex-cat burglar turned ex-bagman. Still mumbling, “…man o’ mystery…if I had half a…” It took Mac all of ten seconds to pull a celluloid strip out of his pocket, shove it under the upper sash and push the latch back. He tugged the window hard a short distance to see if it squeaked—and, to see if anybody inside noticed. He waited, then opened it all the way and slid inside.

  He gave himself five minutes because it was a small room with a shared bathroom attached—one less room to search. And, because he had made the mistake of alerting the staff’s attention to the neighboring room. For all he knew, the House Dick might be using his pass key to come through the door any second now. An amateur thief would have tried to block both doors by propping a chair under the knob. Mac could already tell they were mounted too high for that. When it came to burglary, movie tricks never worked as well as the celluloid the pictures were developed on, he thought, pocketing his homemade window tool.

  The room was spartan, didn’t even look like anybody was staying in it. There was nothing in the medicine cabinet above the sink on the wall. He checked the seams around the edges—still sealed—the cabinet didn’t slip out of the wall. A metal chest of drawers contained some fresh laundered shirts, socks, and a tie. There were some clothes in the closet; nothing in the pockets.

  He heard somebody talking quietly in the hall, their footsteps headed toward him. Mac reached in his pocket and pulled out his disguise—an odd-sized paper bag, just perfect for his seven-and-three-quarters head. He unfolded the bag, poked two eyeholes in it and pulled it over his head. The sound of footsteps echoed on past the door and down the hall.

  Mac almost put the bag back in his pocket but changed his mind, he liked being a mystery-man. Besides, he had to get used to wearing a mask. He put his hat back on over it and, turning toward the bed, noticed the blankets were draped all the way to the floor on the side opposite the wall—he should’ve noticed that first thing. Maybe the maid didn’t want to pull the bed out to make it, but he doubted that was it.

  He kneeled down beside the bed and pushed the blankets out of the way. One suitcase and two musical instrument cases. At least he’d found the right room.

  He slid the suitcase out on the floor and opened it as if he were familiar with the latches. He was. It was empty, no compartments. If instruments were in the other two cases, whatever it was he was looking for was in the hotel safe. No problem, he thought, next time he’d just tell the desk clerk he had a message for the midget in the safe and could he slide that under the door.

  “He…pushed the blankets out of the way…”

  The snare drum case had a little weight to it. When he opened it, there was a square package inside, wrapped in paper and tied with a string. He reached up and tore a pillow case off the bed, tossing the package inside and tying it under his belt. He almost laughed at the next piece of luggage. Gee, now what would a criminal put in a violin case?

  There was a rattling sound at the bathroom door. A key jiggling in the lock.

  Mac jumped to his feet and crossed the room, surprisingly soundless for such a large man. The glass doorknob worked back and forth, up and down, reflecting the streetlight coming in the window. Mac positioned himself behind the door, feet apart, as the latch inside the room turned over.

  The door opened.

  Mac kicked it shut again.

  The sound of the toilet lid slamming down clattered in the air as the person on the other side thumped to the floor. Mac turned the latch, locking the door again, then stepped over and picked up the violin case. He stepped back behind the door, standing in the corner next to the window.

  “House Detective!” the voice in the bathroom said. “I’m coming in.”

  “One mo-ment,” Mac sang, in an imitation feminine voice. The latch flipped over, and when the door opened, ever so slowly—Mac stomped it shut again.

  Cursing erupted amid the splashing sounds and something bounced off the tile wall inside. Mac locked the door again and hurtled sideways through the window. He ran down the fire escape, supporting himself with gloved fingers as he swung around each turn—partly in an effort to speed his process, but also so his weight wouldn’t tear the thin, iron frame from the wall.

  When he got to the second floor, he didn’t waste any time waiting for the counterweight to lower the steps, but rather ran into the empty air and turned around, grabbing the frame and swinging to the ground. He looked up just in time to see the hotel dick reaching for his holster.

  Mac hit the ground running for the alley. Bullets splintered the fence next door as he rounded the corner and leapt onto the running board of the moving De Soto, throwing the violin case in the window. Crankshaft turned right so Mac wouldn’t wind up on the concrete. Mac tore the bag off his head and threw it into the gutter as Crankshaft turned right again on Broadway.

  Crankshaft kept laughing at Mac trying to crawl into the window of the moving vehicle, and finally stopped a half-block away.

  “Good thing you got the key, huh?”

  ***

  Less than an hour had passed, and this time Crankshaft had managed to get the seat behind his desk. Mac set the package and the violin case between the two of them.

  “Which one you want to open first?” Mac said.

  “The violin case, I just have to know,” Crankshaft said.

  “Ten bucks says it’s not a violin. It’s too heavy.”

  “Ten bucks says it’s not a Tommy gun, either. It’s too corny.”

  “You’re on.” Mac stood up and flipped the catches on the case, opening it so the top blocked Crankshaft’s view. Then his jaw dropped open.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think I’m gonna have any trouble paying that bet off, Crank,” he said, turning the case around. It was full of money. Stacked and banded with paper strips that read $100.

  “Think it’s real?”

  Mac pulled a bundle out. “Feels like it.” He pulled a few bills out and shuffled them. “Most counterfeiters wouldn’t bother to print serial numbers in numerical order, now would they?”

  The expletive Crankshaft uttered was about as close to imperfect English as he ever got. “So what’s in the package, cigars?”

  “Again, right size—wrong weight.” Mac pulled out a pocket knife and cut through the string and paper. The burgundy colored box said Roi-Tan Cigars. Mac didn’t say anything this time. He opened the cigar box and made a face like he should be scratching his head. It was full of a brownish-white brick. When he scraped it with his penknife, the corner crum
bled into powder.

  “Dope,” Crankshaft said. “Heroin. Maybe cocaine… Get if off my property.”

  Chapter IV

  Between Life and Death

  Mac wrapped the cigar box back up and grabbed a shovel before he went out to return his “borrowed” bulldozer. He buried the package underneath the train trestles of the El next to Crankshaft’s lot. The old war hero had said he didn’t want to know, and Mac wasn’t willing to flush it down the sink until he had figured out what it was all about. He’d handed Crankshaft one of the hundred dollar bills to pay off their bet before he told him to lock the rest of the money in his safe.

  By five AM, Mac had the bulldozer back on its trailer at the corner of Wabash and Jefferson. He took Crankshaft’s truck to his new apartment house and managed to get four hours sleep before he went to a drugstore to call Hunts Helms at the city P.R. office.

  “Hunts, what’s the scoop? What have you got on what went down last night at the club?”

  “Not much to it, Mac. Drummer Sticks Stone was murdered—fired upon by an unknown assailant. The city of Chicago is offering a $500 reward for any information leading to the arrest of—”

  “I don’t want to know what’s on your typewriter, Hunts. What’s the real story?”

  “The real story is they got nothing. One witness saw a big man in a gray pinstripe suit. Black shirt. Missing part of his left ear.”

  “Black shirt? I thought that stuff went out with Capone.”

  “Yeah, well, evidently some gangsters have no sense of fashion.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Why do you want to know, Mac? I thought you were going straight.”

  “Hey, it’s in my neighborhood, y’know.”