Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  The woman’s cell was lavishly furnished: an oriental rug covered the stone floor, a Persian couch lay against one corner, and a record player crooned out Satchmo by the door. A writing desk sat near the window; behind it was a small woman in a gray jumpsuit, hair pulled back in a haughty bun. She was smoking a cigarette and humming along with Louie. When she saw in the two of them, she put down her pen.

  “Nunie, another visitor, really? I told you I was busy.”

  Mick gave the warden a cold glare. “Nunie?”

  The warden coughed, taking off his hat. “Well, ma’am, this one’s from an agency. Pinker-something. Says he wants to discuss your, ah, bail?”

  “Izzat a fact?” She leaned back, crossing her legs. “Fine. You can leave, Nunie. I’ll give a holler when we’re done.”

  To Mick’s amazement, Nunez did so. When the door shut, Mick pulled up a small wooden stool from the corner, staring through the bars.

  “Carla Ponzi. You’re not exactly subtle with your power. How long you been running this place?”

  “Couple a’ months.” She blew smoke at him. He was struck by how tiny she was: the woman couldn’t have been more than five feet, with melancholy eyelashes and brows that sloped elegantly towards the corners of her face. If the headlines he’d read were accurate, this woman had built an overnight fortune, using nothing but fake travel coupons. The coupons and her special Draught “perfumes” had let her reel in thousands of suckers—and they’d all been financially ruined when her scheme collapsed.

  “Who the hell are you?” she said.

  He almost tipped his hat, then paused. Mick was a former cop. He did not tip his hat at criminals. Disgusted with himself, he straightened the brim. “Mick Vance, private detective. I’m on the trail of some missing property.”

  “Pinkerton lost something at the bank job? Maybe you shouldn’t have put it there.” When his mouth opened, she laughed. “Shut that, before the flies get in. I know everything that happens out there. I have sources.”

  “Yeah, I kind of guessed with the Queen of Sheba routine.”

  “This?” She nodded at her luxuries. “This ain’t nothing. I can get whatever I want, whenever I want. Last week I played cards with the Governor—he’s a cheating bastard, by the way. Who do you play cards with?”

  “I’m a chess man, myself.”

  “Chess? That’s a shame. No money in chess.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “You want my help, that’s pretty obvious. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. What’s the pitch?”

  Mick bristled with frustration. This meeting wasn’t going like he’d planned. He wasn’t in control here, and he hated that sensation. Still, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by Carla—her legend still clung to her, giving her words power, even though she was clearly locked up with no hope of escape. “We’ve considered taking you on as an… advisor, to this case. Given your criminal expertise.”

  “Uh huh.” She didn’t sound thrilled. “I made a lot of deposits in Springfield. Not the branch that got hit, the other one. The Feds took every dime.” She lit another cigarette. “I want some back, before I do any ‘advising’ for you. As a down payment.”

  Mick scowled. This woman, from behind bars, was demanding the impossible from him—and from Pinkerton. “That’s not going to happen. However, the Agency can compensate you for your time…”

  “I don’t want chump change, Vance. I want my money.” Her eyes flickered with an unhealthy avarice. Mick thought that if someone set up a distillery next to this woman, the Greed condensed there might be the strongest ever made. “Money talks, bullshit walks. Get it done, or you can do your little ‘gumshoe’ routine without me. Capische?”

  Mick considered this. On the one hand, Carla was an obnoxious, preening con-artist who might string him along, and then bolt at the soonest opportunity. Not exactly his best choice in partners.

  On the other… he was lacking in allies right now. He was unpopular in the Agency for his reluctance to break strikes, but also for his Jewish ancestry and solitary attitude. He needed Ponzi—needed her connections to the underworld. It bothered him to admit that. Mick did not enjoy needing people.

  “Very well,” he said. “We’ll see to the release of your cash. But we need this case solved. After forty-eight hours, the Agency puts odds of recovering the stones at—”

  “It’s done. Shake on it.” She reached through the bars and shook his hand. Her grip was like iron despite her small size. “Now pay my bail, and let’s boogie!”

  Christ, thought Mick, smelling the reek of ambition on her: overpowering, ruthless, with a hint of roses. What the hell am I getting into here?

  CHAPTER 5

  WELL, THERE GOES BOSTON’S FINEST.” Rose watched from beneath the awning of an Italian bakery, as Officer Malloney, pink-skinned and glowing with Rapture, struggled to cling to the rails of an electric street-car as it rumbled along Tremont Street. “Hope he doesn’t fall and break his neck.”

  “We’d be safer if he did,” said Gus.

  “Don’t be a prick.”

  The clanging of the street-car’s bell began to fade as it descended the incline towards Boylston and Jamaica Plain. The bell’s clanging matched the hammering of her heart; Malloney was smashed, completely obliterated, but had it worked? Were they safe?

  He would certainly lose his job once the cops found him drunk, and any explanations or memories would probably be washed away by the Jake. But that wasn’t guaranteed. Not to mention, the process of force-feeding him the Draught had been… unpleasant. There’d been finger-biting, and funnels. Not her greatest day on the job.

  She shook off her goosebumps, trying to plan for what came next. She’d already telephoned Wallace’s boys to empty the safe-house. They’d taken the news calmly… a bit too calmly, she thought. They’d told her the contraband there would be gone by sundown. The Gustin Gang worked quick—but she and Gus had now inconvenienced Frank Wallace twice, in one day. He wouldn’t let that slide.

  Gus sat on the bakery’s stoop, trimming his claws with a paring knife. “I could’ve taken care of it, Rose. Now he’s a liability.”

  She bristled. “Sorry I’m not comfortable with cold-blooded murder.”

  He stood up, and there was less friendliness than usual in his shifty eyes. “If it weren’t for you going soft on me, we’d have no worries. You’re gonna have to get over that attitude—we’re mood-leggers. This job requires bad things.”

  “There’s no list of rules, dammit. I can do the job how I like.” They paused as a group of children emerged from the bakery, carrying brioche and ciabatta. Once they passed, Rose nudged her partner’s shoulder. “I started up with you, because you weren’t like the rest of them. Don’t make me regret that.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll try. Once you’re done playing saint, we still need more Draughts.”

  “Right—the goods.” She rubbed her forehead, exhausted. In the panic of dealing with Malloney, she’d nearly forgotten their double-crossing with the Fomeroys. “We’ll need a new car, some petrol. We might be able to get up to Maine, cut a bargain…”

  “I have a better idea.” He handed her a small black notebook. One page was dog-eared. “Took this off Malloney. He had a busy schedule.”

  Rose opened it. Most of the pages had notes from arrests—bookings, seizures of contraband. But one page stood out, covered in dates, times, and street names, with “Allowed” and “Forfeit.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out what the shorthand meant. “Malloney was crooked? Gus, this is brilliant.”

  “Of course it is, I’m a criminal mastermind.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Now, look. Obviously these are shipments he’s made ‘arrangements’ for.”

  “Right.”

  She was impatient to reach the point, but Gus didn’t hurry. He never did, when money was involved. “And these are the ones that haven’t bribed him, or that he hasn’t worked over yet.” He tapped the “Seize” notes. “You know, for a dumb-ass, he was pretty clever.”

>   She nodded, scanning the page. “Look—this shipment is tonight, on the waterfront. Says it’s for Fallon’s Department Store.” Fallon’s was a new place in the South End, and the papers had been buzzing about it for days. Fallon’s must be a Draught storehouse, or have a speakeasy in it. Surprisingly, she’d never heard of either.

  If it was right in the middle of the South End, though, she and Gus had stumbled onto a major shipping vein. The fact they didn’t know whose it was, or how much product was being moved, didn’t worry her—thieves stole from thieves, that was just how things went. But there was one thing worrying her. “We have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Once he sobers up, Malloney’s going to know we have this. He may even have our descriptions.”

  Gus shrugged. “How’s he going to remember where their shipments are? He had to write everything down. I wouldn’t be surprised if he cuts ties with ‘em—or if they cut ties with him. Permanently.”

  Rose didn’t like the sound of that. But like Gus had said… this was a messy business. It was best to move on, and not dwell on the ugliness. “So, how do we get these goods?”

  He chewed on a claw. Passing by, a local midwife scowled at him, and he bared his fangs at her. She hurried away. “I’d like to take Malloney’s place, but Wallace isn’t going to take cash from us. Only Draughts.” A cloud passed over his craggy features. “These suppliers. We’re gonna have to hit ‘em, Rose.”

  Rose’s throat went dry. “I’m not a trigger-man.”

  “We don’t have a choice,” Gus reminded her. “If we don’t get any merchandise for Wallace, he‘s going to cut us loose… or worse.”

  She mulled this over. The afternoon sun passed through the smog of the city, creating a fragmentary glow heavy with the pollen of Boston summer. The air seemed to squeezed her, despite the peace around them, and she asked herself whether she could really kill if it was necessary. If her only other option was the Wallaces killing them, and dumping their bodies in a landfill...

  Rose thought she could do it.

  After Florida, she didn’t want to see more death—she could still hear those guns in her mind. But Gus was right. This was a dirty business. Sooner or later, work like theirs always got messy. She couldn’t bury her head and ignore it—and if she tried, Gus would walk. He was reliable, and quick with a joke, but he was no idiot. He always followed the money, and if Rose slowed him down, he would find a new partner to work with. And the idea of working alone scared her shitless. Without Gus around, Boston’s underworld would eat her alive.

  “Fine,” she said. “We’ll hit them.”

  “You’re sure?” His gaze was inscrutable, reptilian, and she bristled.

  “Yeah. I’m not made of glass—I can back you up.”

  He paused. “Alright. I know a few boys. Let me make some calls.” He lit a cigar, blowing smoke into the rays of dying sun. “You get us the coffee, and some shooting irons. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She nodded. “I hate this.”

  “Yeah.” He blew smoke into the hazy air. “I know you do. If we get blown to hell, don’t worry—I’ll tell Saint Peter you had reservations about it.”

  He stalked off into the crowd of shoppers, who gave him a wide berth—Myths were not popular in Catholic neighborhoods, and Gus didn’t do himself favors, shoving people out of the way as he went. Rose leaned on the bakery stoop, wondering where she was going to find enough guns for a whole crew.

  Something about their plan didn’t sit right, and it wasn’t just that they could get shot—or that she might have to shoot someone else. There was an angle they hadn’t considered here, something they were missing. Rose she scanned the day’s events in her mind, looking for unseen dangers, things that stood out.

  The big one was, they still didn’t know who’d sold them out to the Family… and that was bad, because the traitor probably worked for the Gustin Gang. It might even be Wallace himself, or one of his brothers. They would need a new employer once all this was done.

  In the meantime, they had more pressing concerns. She gazed down the cobbled street, with its mounds of horse manure, rumbling cars, and citizens moving along the sidewalks with crisp, Puritan efficiency. Shoe-shiners plied their trade, motorists argued over parking spaces. Old-timers lounged in doorways or around the rail station, preferring to watch trolley cars go by instead of ride them. Scenes like this were the closest Boston came to peace, and she breathed it in: raucous voices, train bells, the heat of afternoon. She wanted to enjoy this peace, while she still could.

  Because tonight, it would all vanish in a hail of gunfire.

  CHAPTER 6

  “WHAT THE hell are we doing here?”

  Vance scowled as they stepped into the lavish lobby of the St. Cloud Hotel, in Cambridge. The place reeked of affluence and caprice. “We’re supposed to be solving my case, not racking up a bill.”

  Carla sniffed. “Don’t get smart with me. I told you, I know people.” They crossed a marble floor laid with fleur-de-lis patterns, moving towards the check-in desk. Around them, bellhops and caterers moved efficiently, dodging Vance when he stumbled over a luggage trolley. The stump of his left knee throbbed, adding discomfort to his embarrassment.

  Damn wooden leg. It didn’t usually trouble him, but after all this walking, it hurt like a bitch. Not that he was going to say anything—not in front of Ponzi.

  Carla leaned on the hotel desk with an unlit cigarette on her lips. As far as gate-crashers went, he thought, she looked pretty good. The Company had arranged for some of her cash to be released, and she’d wasted no time spending it on expensive clothing and earrings down at Jordan Marsh. Vance had been forced to sit and wait, checking his watch while she ran down Company time.

  She gestured at the man behind the desk. “Sammy, honey! How are you?”

  The receptionist, a thin fellow with a mustache and enormous glasses, blinked at her. “Carla? I thought they put you away.”

  “Yeah, well, now I’m back.” She tapped the guest-book. “Still got me on the special list?”

  Sammy pored over his ledger as Vance cast a wary eye around. He’d smelled something odd on the way here, among the thousands of physical and emotional traces outside the hotel. In between horse-shit, and car exhaust, and the reek of pavement and human skin, there had been a trace of brass… and gunpowder. The ashen scent lurked on the borders of perception, making him jumpy. It set itself apart from the more obvious smells—pressed linens, gold lintels, the moist earth of plants lining the lobby. But where the hell was it coming from?

  There. He saw a man in a brown coat move behind a pillar, towards the elevators. It was just a flash, but he caught the glimmer of a badge. It wasn’t the coat or the badge that worried, but the gait of the man: his movements were crisp and upright. That was a lawman’s stride.

  Mick had walked like that, before he left the chaos of the BPD and moved on to bigger and better things. Some federal Boy Scout on his first tail. Could be Prohibition… or somebody else. “Is she in the damn book, or not?” he asked Sammy, patience lost.

  If the Bureau of Investigation had followed them here, there could be an entire squad of agents waiting to jump them. But why would they trail him, instead of hunting the bank robbers? That didn’t make sense. Had that pipsqueak, Stein, ratted him out?

  “Who’s the stiff?” Sammy said, looking at Vance.

  “He’s a friend of mine,” said Carla, nudging Mick with her foot. “Be nice, Micky dear.”

  The receptionist snorted. “Friend of Dorothy’s, more like.” But he relented, tapping an entry in the book. “Yeah, you’re still here. No cover charge … but you’d best keep your pal out of trouble. Password is ‘de-natured.’”

  “Thanks, honey,” said Carla, and with a surprising strength she pulled Vance around the desk, towards a back-room marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  “We’re being followed,” Vance told her, peering through the door as it closed. The man in the brown coat had
emerged from the pillars, hat pulled low over his face. Vance couldn’t make out any details—nothing to mark him with. Only that smell, and then the door closed, cutting them off from the lobby.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “You… do?”

  “Course I do. I know when I’m a mark, honey.” Carla led him down a skeletal staircase of pig-iron and through a wide brick archway. “But he’s not gonna follow us down here. Not alone.” Every step took them deeper into Boston’s guts, gloomy and greasy.

  They filed past mail workers, Chinese and Irish immigrants sorting through piles of hotel mail. Pneumatic tubes lined the far side of the room, the hum of suction fans a constant drone. Few of the workers even looked their way, despite how out-of-place they seemed.

  “You don’t know the Bureau. They’re relentless. They’ve got some new guy running things—Herbert something. Word is, he’s nuts.”

  “Relax, big fella. I know what I’m doing.”

  Vance’s hand slipped to his pocket, where a derringer sat waiting. They could make a stand, if they had to—it would be messy, and he didn’t like the idea of shooting a public servant, but the Company could handle cleanup of one B.O.I. agent. If it was necessary.

  She pulled on a mail chute, its pneumatic tube running up into the ceiling. To Vance’s surprise, the brick wall beside them swung open, disgorging cigar smoke and the stench of liquor.

  “A speakeasy? Under the St. Cloud?” He shook his head. “Gutsy.”

  “You’ll love it, the drinks are great here. Come on.”

  “Ponzi, it’s four in the afternoon.”

  “I said, come on.” She pulled him through the gap and closed the secret door behind them. Then they paused as a dark shape loomed through the smoke, lit by red lights.

  “Hey. Youse.”