by Jack Kline
Cover and Interior Design by Smoking Gun Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2017 Jack Kline. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN: 978-1-940586-44-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017946613
Visit us on the web at www.smokinggunpublishing.com
Published by Smoking Gun Publishing, LLC
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my parents, Jean and Phil, who fostered in me the desire to read before I even knew what an alphabet was.
“You can get much further with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone.”
- Al Capone
Tuesday, October 9, 1934
(Day One)
I was sober.
I’d never been to Tom Holloway’s place before. Not much call for a guy like me hanging out on Ward Parkway, Kansas City’s money street. In this ritzy neighborhood, Holloway’s place still stood out like diamond earrings on a stockyard steer.
I sat in Holloway’s library. All around me were books, floor to ceiling. More books than you could count, enough that it would take a lug a lifetime to read them, and it had a fella wondering if they were all for show.
Three flicks of the match on my thumbnail brought no flame, but the sole of my shoe did the trick. My lips got busy shooting cigarette smoke rings at the bookshelves while I wondered why a man who owns the cops, the elected officials, J.C. Nichols and just about every other businessman in Kansas City would call for a small-time private dick. In 1934, Tom Holloway was God, and God wanted to talk to me.
Fifteen minutes earlier, a brute of a man had answered my knock on the place’s oversized door. His shoulders were so broad he’d have to turn sideways to enter a place built for an average Joe. He had deep-set green eyes that clashed with his carroty hair and freckles. His clothes were tailored and immaculate, though he must have weighed two-hundred fifty pounds, a butler’s suit tailored by a tentmaker.
“Yes, sir?” The palooka spoke with a refined Irish accent. I noticed a bulge in the front of his pants underneath his suit coat. I figured it was a large caliber revolver, not a part of your standard manservant’s garb.
“I’m Philip Morris. I have an appointment with Mr. Holloway.”
“Of course, sir, please come in. May I take your overcoat and hat?” I handed them over and he hung them on a coat rack made from buck antlers by the door. He asked me to wait in the foyer and trotted up a wide oak staircase. A grandfather clock that was as big as the butler kept me company, clacking out the seconds. As I waited, a young blonde in a dark sparkly dress walked past at the top of the stairs top looking pretty swell from forty feet. She didn’t glance my way and disappeared down the hall.
When the butler returned, he nimbly danced down the stairs, and even with his belt bulge, he moved as if somebody had sewed Fred Astaire’s legs on him. He led me into the library and told me to make myself comfortable.
The library looked like a rich guy’s would. There were bookshelves on three walls and two large paintings on the fourth, oak-paneled wall. I floated across plush burgundy carpet and took a gander at the paintings, both by local boys who had made good, John Curry and Tom Benton. I was working on my second cigarette when Astaire showed again. “Mr. Holloway will be a few more moments, Mr. Morris. May I get you anything, a drink perhaps?”
Now he was talking. But I surprised myself. “No, thanks,” my voice said.
“As you wish.” He turned to leave.
“Say, what do they call you?” I asked.
He stopped and turned, “Hannerty, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“Yeah, Mr. Hannerty. In the future, you might want to pack your rod in the back of your belt. Otherwise, a fella might think you were happy to see him.” His expression remained unchanged, but his emerald eyes sparkled. Or maybe it was just the light.
“Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”
“Yeah Hannerty, thanks.”
I dragged myself out of the plush leather chair and took a lap around the room. One wall held shelves of law books. But Holloway was in the construction game—and he collected politicians. Folks say the no-bid construction contracts for the Power and Light Building and the new courthouse lined both Holloway’s pockets and those of the elected officials in them. And it was said that the foundations of those projects held their share of his enemies’ skeletons—literally. So what was with all the law books?
I moved on to a shelf of fiction. There at eye level was Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, the one book I saw that I had actually read. It was about rich people like Holloway. His dough didn’t come from old money like Tom and Daisy in the book. Holloway got his power and money from political favors and from building skyscrapers. Everybody knew he was not a guy to cross. I ground my cigarette in a nearby pedestal ashtray and pulled out the book. It looked new, unread.
As I flipped pages, footsteps sounded behind me. I slapped the book closed, slid it back into its place and turned to the door. The sparkly blonde strode in like she owned the place.
Her lips were shiny and blood-red, and she smiled like she just ate a canary. “Hmm…do you know how to read? Or were you just looking for pictures?”
“Both, I suppose,” I said as she approached. Her cobalt sequined dress squiggled in all the right places, and it was cut low in the front, very low.
“You the Holloway librarian?” I asked.
“No, I’m the Holloway daughter, Colleen.” She stopped in front of me, hands on hips, close enough to touch. She was tall and could look me level in the eyes but mine refused to stay there, they fell down into the pale, deep valley of her neckline.
“You one of my father’s henchmen?”
“Well, sister, I’m a man, but I’m nobody’s hench.”
She smiled at that. “So what’s your story, Mr. …?”
“Morris, Philip Morris.”
She laughed. “Like the cigarette?”
“Yeah, doll, like the cigarette.” I’d heard that one plenty. It was my father’s idea of a big joke, a joke that got tired three decades ago. I told her that I was an investigator while my eyes gave her the up-and-down. She was put together real well.
“Say, what’s the matter? Can’t you look me in the eyes?”
“Sister, that dress makes it hard for a guy to focus on your face, pretty as it is.” She wrinkled her nose. She was not angry.
“Call me Colleen,” she said. “What brings you here, Mr. Morris? Is it about Tommy?”
“Don’t know. Your father asked me to come down and have a chat. Should I know Tommy?”
She took my arm, held it firm, and guided me to a tan leather couch. As we walked, she pressed my elbow against her breast. The pressure opened the gown’s neckline even more. The view was terrific. She tugged me down next to her and said, “This is a long story. Tommy’s my kid brother.”
She said that Tommy’s twenty-first birthday – October 13th – was less than a week away, but that no one had seen or heard from him in seven days. He’d been born after Colleen’s parents thought they were done having kids. They had better things to do than raise another one, and Tommy grew up pretty wild. She laid out a few tales, some of them real good, about just how wild. Then two years ago Tommy became interested in law and settled down some. She joked that he’d spent so much time in court w
ith attorneys that he thought he might become one himself. He got a job and took some pre-law classes at the University of Kansas City, east of the Plaza. And that was when Mr. Holloway walked in.
“I see you’ve met Colleen, Mr. Morris.” Holloway was a big, well-dressed man. He’d gone a little soft in the middle but looked as if he could still tote girders. I rose to offer my hand, but he stopped and stood over his daughter.
“Colleen, I think your mother wants you upstairs,” he said in a deep baritone.
“What’s she want, Daddy?”
“Why don’t you go see while I talk to Mr. Morris?” It wasn’t a question and the way she popped up, she took the hint.
Without offering a handshake he walked over to a dark oak desk and pulled open a drawer. “Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Morris?”
“I’ll have one if you are,” I said.
“I never drink before 5:00.”
“Me neither,” I lied.
He shut the drawer and sat down at the desk. I took the chair across from him. With elbows on his desk and hands clasped as if in prayer, he began. “My son, Tom Jr., is missing. He has been for over a week.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Holloway?”
His eyes rolled up like he suddenly found something interesting on the ceiling. He brought them back down to me and spoke slowly as if he were explaining the workings of an internal combustion engine to a schoolgirl. “To answer your question, I have not contacted them. My son has a checkered history with our city’s finest. There are some on the force who don’t think much of Tom. They have watched my lawyers and money extract him from trouble numerous times. And young Tom has an arrogance, a sense of entitlement about him.”
Holloway looked me straight in the eyes and smiled coldly. “I don’t know where he gets that.” I kept my face blank.
Holloway broke his gaze, opened a drawer and pulled out two cigars. He offered me one and I accepted. It was Cuban. I reached into my match pocket but Holloway already had a gold-plated lighter ready. We puffed a bit and the air between us grew cloudy. It was one damn fine cigar. Holloway went on.
“So you see, Mr. Morris, some in the police department might wish ill of my boy. And I must consider the possibility that if foul play is involved, well, someone on the force might be behind it.”
“Why’d you call me, Mr. Holloway?”
“You have a reputation of getting things done, Mr. Morris. And the word is you know how to keep a client’s business under wraps.”
“I appreciate the kind words. What exactly do you want from me?” I am not one to waste time with pleasantries.
“I want you to find Tom Jr., and failing that, to find what has become of him. I’m prepared to offer you one thousand dollars just to look, no strings, plus expenses. And there’s a five thousand dollar bonus if you can locate him—or discover how and by whom he has been eliminated.”
That kind of dough wasn’t coffee and donuts. I wondered if taking this job on board might be a steamer trunk full of trouble. But trouble didn’t scare me and having a big shot like Holloway on a man’s client list might do wonders for that guy’s business. At the same time, I wondered what kind of guy thinks in terms of elimination when someone may have murdered his kid?
“When did you last see your son, Mr. Holloway?”
“Last Tuesday morning Tom left for work. He arrived at the courthouse and worked the day there. Sometimes Tom comes straight home and sometimes he has a few drinks with his friends, hits the jazz clubs, and comes home late. But Tuesday he never came home at all, and no one acknowledges having seen him after he left work.”
“Where does he work?”
“He’s been clerking for the Jackson County Presiding Judge, Judge Boyd.”
“Is that Malcolm Boyd?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“Nope. Heard of him—seems like a square guy.”
“He is. He’s a top-notch jurist and a good friend.”
I asked the obvious question: “Is kidnapping a possibility?”
“Yes.”
“But nobody’s contacted you about ransom. Is that right?”
“That is correct.”
“You mentioned Tom Jr. had some outs with the law. Any drugs or rackets?”
Holloway’s eyes flashed anger. “No,” he said. “His problems have been with booze, and his temper, and the scum he runs with.” He still glared, his shoulders hunched and his hands gripping his desk as if he might leap over it and try to strangle me.
I took a long draw on the Cuban and exhaled a wispy cloud that hovered above us. “May I ask who those scum might be?”
“Mr. Morris, if you decide to take the case, more information will be provided to you tomorrow by Mr. Hannerty. Are you prepared to accept or decline my offer now, or would you like to give me your answer in the morning? Either way, I am a busy man and must offer you good day.”
“I’m your man, Mr. Holloway.”
He opened the cigar drawer and pulled out a band of C-notes, counted out ten and slid them across the desk. “I will, of course, pay any reasonable expenses, regardless of whether you find my boy or not. Please keep careful records.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Holloway.”
“And I will expect you to keep me posted on your progress.”
“Noted.” I began to wonder if this whole deal might be lousy with trouble. But a thousand dollars with a shot at five more was a pretty fair lick.
“Come by at eleven tomorrow morning, and Mr. Hannerty will provide you the names of my son’s associates. He will answer any other questions you may have. I really must attend to other duties now.” We both stood. I ground my half-smoked cigar into his ashtray. He hung on to his.
“One last question, Mr. Holloway.” His nostrils flared as he turned. “Is it possible that your Tom ran off somewhere for a week of fun and dames?”
He nodded. “That is possible and might have been likely a few years ago. But he’s settled down lately, and Tom hasn’t missed a day of work since Judge Boyd hired him.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hannerty will expect you at eleven tomorrow.” He turned and strode to the door. “You may show yourself out. Good day.”
I assumed he was talking to me and was set to shake on the deal but his hand was never offered.
As I walked to my car, I wondered why, if he was so worried about the kid, he’d blow this whole day off before he gave me what I needed to find the boy. Time counted if the kid had been snatched.
When I drove out of Holloway’s winding, maple-lined driveway onto northbound Ward Parkway, a black sedan pulled out from 55th street and settled in a hundred feet behind me—either an amateur’s tail or a coincidence.
Two men rode in the front seat, their black hats pulled down low. They might be trouble boys or even plain clothes coppers from what Holloway said, or maybe they were just two square citizens heading downtown. Once the Parkway caught up with Brush Creek, I began making random turns along the south side of the creek. The sedan dropped back but stayed behind me. That ruled out the squares.
I decided I’d try to catch Judge Boyd at the courthouse so I could ask him about his privileged young clerk. And I’d see if these gentlemen planned to tail me all the way to the county courthouse steps.
The sedan stuck behind me through downtown to the courthouse. I pulled my Plymouth to the curb. The car cruised by slowly. Both men looked away and the passenger tilted his hat to cover his face. They pulled over a half block down 12th Street. These guys had my attention. The judge could wait. I made sure there was no traffic and steered back out onto Twelfth. I slowed to a stop in the eastbound lane next to them, pulled the brake, reached over and rolled down the passenger side window. At the same time, I grabbed my .38 and held it low, out of sight.
“Howdy, fellas,” I said with a smile. “Can I help you boys?”
They looked at each other. Then th
e pug-faced passenger tipped his hat back and replied, “I don’t know. Why do you ask, Mr. …”
“Morris, Philip.”
“Oh, like the cigarette?” the chubby driver cackled at his own joke and looked to the one who had an oddly flat face.
“Yeah, smart guy, like the cigarette. You boys followed me all the way from Brush Creek. I figured maybe there was something I might help you with.”
Flat Face must have been the brains, such as they were. “Well, Mr. Philip Morris, we thought we might help you stay healthy.”
I told the two goons that I held my health in high esteem and would appreciate any pointers they might offer. They looked at each other. Then Flat Face puffed his chest up like a balloon and said, “We noticed you had some business with Mr. Holloway this afternoon, Philip. We think that it would be very good for your health if your business had been concluded with that visit and that you should have nothing more to do with the man or his family.” With a smug expression, he opened his coat and let me see his piece for emphasis.
“And who might you boys represent with this friendly advice?”
“Let’s just say we represent your family doctor,” he said.
“What a coincidence, boys, I’ve got some advice for you.” I produced some smugness of my own. “I’ve got a rod in my hand and it’s just below the window and I’m a pretty good shot. For the sake of your own health, why don’t you start up that sedan and drive away?” I wiggled the tip of the barrel above the window’s line of view. “And it would also be good for your health if I didn’t see you again. And if you should ever run into me again, you boys better be ready to tussle. Do we understand each other, gentlemen?”
The driver turned to his pal. Flat Face held both hands up by his shoulders, letting me know he wouldn’t test my aim.
“Okay, have it your way, tough guy,” he said. “But I don’t think your family doctor is going to be happy with your decision.” The driver started up the sedan and put it into gear. Flat Face pulled his hat back down, and with a grim look said, “Oh we’ll see each other again, Mr. Morris. Count on it.” He touched his hat brim and they drove away.
