But Not For Me

by Jack Kline

  Wednesday, October 10, 1934

  (Day Two)

  I woke up sweating. My head felt as if my skull had shrunk the night before, my cramped brain trying to find a path of exit. The memory of my mother’s disapproving brown eyes still fresh from a dream I couldn’t remember. In the kitchen, Sammy was stiff under the spread. One of his front paws stuck straight out. I didn’t open the spread to look; the picture held of him in my head was the one I would keep. The load was awkward but I got Sammy down the stairs and into the back of the Plymouth.

  I borrowed Mrs. Potter’s garden shovel and drove south to the Blue River woods near Swope Park. The trees had donned fall colors, and the view on the drive was spectacular. But all I could see in the crimson maples was Sammy’s pooled blood on the kitchen floor. No one tried to follow me, or there would have been a need for more graves.

  I knocked on Holloway’s door promptly at eleven. Hannerty opened it and Colleen peeked around from behind him. She was smiling. “Mr. Morris,” they echoed.

  “I want to speak to Holloway,” I stepped inside the door.

  “I’m sorry sir; he’s unavailable. I have the information on young Tom’s friends and associates. I’ll retrieve it.”

  “Later, Hannerty. Where’s Holloway?” I started to walk around him and Colleen backed away. Hannerty held out his arm and blocked my path.

  “He’s not seeing visitors, Mr. Morris.” He said it firmly. Colleen watched from behind, eyebrows up and her scarlet lips forming a capital “O”

  “Look, Hannerty, if you plan on stopping me, you better pull that rod out from the back of your belt.” I shoved his arm aside, started up the stairs and yelled “Holloway!”

  Before I reached the top, a calm voice answered from the library door below, “Mr. Morris.”

  We sat in the same spots as before, him behind his desk. He displayed no reaction as I explained yesterday’s tail downtown and what happened in my flat.

  “I’m sorry about your dog, Mr. Morris. That is very unfortunate.” He wasn’t sorry. His look of sympathy was as phony as crab cakes in Kansas.

  “Never mind the dog, Mr. Holloway. What’s going on? Who’s behind this?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea. That is why I sought your services.” He put the fingers of his hands together like he was about to play itsy-bitsy spider. “I understand you’re upset, and if you wish to conclude our arrangement, you may keep two hundred dollars for your time and the loss of your animal, and return the remaining eight hundred to Mr. Hannerty.”

  I leaned forward and pointed my finger. “You misunderstand me. I’m going to be on this case like horse flies on horse shit. Anyone, and I mean anyone, Mr. Holloway, who gets in my way will regret it. Are we clear on that?”

  I heard a woman’s voice from somewhere upstairs call out for Colleen. A moment later Colleen responded. Holloway assessed me silently, and the smug expression he wore on his face made me want to punch it. Time to sizzle some bacon.

  I conjured up some of my own arrogance and asked, “Now, tell me about your gambling debts.”

  “Debts, Mr. Morris?” His expressionless face seemed cut from stone.

  “That’s right. You’ve been betting the ponies and have run up a hefty tab, I’m told.” I fixed on his eyes. A staring contest commenced. His eyes questioned, wondering how much I knew, and I saw anger there too. He broke contact first and shuffled some papers on his desk as if he had more pressing business there.

  “And who might have told you this fallacious information?” He asked without looking up. Those papers he shuffled suddenly held the utmost importance.

  “Doesn’t matter; the source was reliable. Suppose you tell me about the gambling debts.”

  “No, you are wrong, Mr. Morris. It does matter.” He gave up on the paperwork. His slate eyes were winter cold. “I want to know who is spreading these malicious accusations.”

  I smiled. “My sources are confidential, Mr. Holloway. They will remain so, just as anything we discuss here will remain between you and me. I’m sure you can appreciate that.” I tapped out a cigarette and flicked a match on my thumb, twice. The lighted sulfur tip broke off and dropped into my lap causing a moment of crotch swatting. Before I could pull another from my vest pocket, he held his fancy lighter in my face, held it a little too close. I leaned back, lit the butt and blew smoke at his mug.

  “Are you saying you don’t have any gambling debts?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I have some modest ones, certainly nothing significant.”

  He was backpedaling, so I kept him in reverse. “Look, pal, I don’t want to play games with you. If you have debts that you haven’t paid, I need to know. It might have something to do with your son’s disappearance.”

  I don’t think the man got called “pal” very often; his mouth twitched at the word. But he didn’t react otherwise. Holloway told me he did have some unpaid horse racing debts, that they were moderate and he would pay them at the end of the quarter with dividends from his business interests. He said he had “good rapport with the gaming people” and that they knew he was good for his “wagers.” It sounded like a load of hooey. What kinds of “gaming people” let a lug slide on his debts for that many months? I asked him who the people were, and he wouldn’t say. I asked him if he was aware of the possibility that these “gaming people” might be holding his son. He scoffed and suggested that I continue my investigation. But if I turned up nothing in the next few days he would allow me to investigate the gambler’s angle.

  “He might be dead in a few days,” I said.

  It didn’t faze him. “Tom might be dead now, Mr. Morris. I suggest you find out.” He said it with finality, and I knew our discussion was at an end.

  “One more thing, Mr. Holloway. If you hear anything from anyone about your son, you will contact me?”

  “That goes without saying,” he said, but I had my doubts. He told me that Hannerty would turn over a packet of information on Tommy’s associates. This time he gave me a peremptory handshake. I got a better grip from my Plymouth’s worn out Firestones.

  Hannerty waited in the foyer. He had a packet for me, and my fedora and overcoat. “I’m sorry to hear about your pet dog, Mr. Morris,” he said as he handed them over.

  “Thanks, Hannerty.” I pulled on my coat while he opened the door. At the doorway, I stopped and turned. “How did you hear about my dog, Mr. Hannerty?”

  “Why, from Miss Colleen, sir.”

  Outside on the way to my Plymouth, his answer made it up to my brain. Only Lucille, the cops and now Holloway knew about Sammy’s death. And, of course, the rats that did the deed, and whoever hired them. Where did Colleen fit?

  I climbed into the old car and fired her up, feathering the choke as it sputtered to life. Colleen wobbled around from the back of the house. She waved to me. Her high heels dug into the soft grass requiring leg muscles to work extra hard to keep her upright. Some muscles they were. They belonged to gams which were long and sleek and athletic. I rolled down my window. She stopped at the car and leaned in, giving me full view of the dark cave between her breasts – made me want to take up spelunking.

  “Mr. Morris, we need to talk.” Her perfume was strong and sweet, and there was a late-morning hint of bourbon on her breath—a heady mixture.

  “Sure, doll, hop in and we’ll go have lunch.”

  “No, Mr. Morris, I can’t leave right now.” She looked over her shoulder at the house. “Can you meet me at the Krazy Kat Club tonight at eight-thirty? It’s on Vine, at Nineteenth.”

  “Yeah, I know the place. Great jazz. I’ll be there at eight-thirty with bells on.”

  She leaned in and gave me a lingering kiss on the lips—the brazen hussy—and then she turned and wobbled through the wet grass back to the house. Her legs gave me a show as my jalopy slipped into first gear and pulled out onto 55th.

  I wanted to take a gander at the packet Hannerty gave me and I felt like being around people. Jill, my secretary, would be
at lunch by the time I got back. So the Plymouth headed north to Nick’s Fine Foods on the Trafficway. The fine food part was no exaggeration—mighty fine, and also cheap. Nick’s waitresses weren’t much to look at, but they were the best in town, fast and efficient. Several times I’ve tried to empty my coffee cup there. It can’t be done.

  My favorite waitress, Rosemary, spotted me as I located an open booth. “What’ll it be, Phil?” she asked as I set my overcoat and hat next to me. Rosemary didn’t need a pad. She could take a whole table full of orders, load them into her head, and deliver everything fixed good and proper to the correct customer.

  I had skipped breakfast to bury Sammy and my stomach yelled at me to do something quick. So I ordered three eggs, hash browns, toast, and link sausage. No need to mention eggs over easy or coffee black; that she knew. I opened Hannerty’s folder as Rosemary brought the coffee.

  “Here you go, honey.” She leaned over and set down the cup. Rosemary was buxom, and she had a little extra padding everywhere. Her body strained to get out of the tight sky-blue outfit the girls there wore. Her frosty blonde bob belonged on a younger woman.

  “Thanks, Rosie.” I took a sip—hot and good. The battle of the empty coffee cup began.

  The packet held half a dozen photos of Tommy, the last at a New Year’s party last year—he wore a tuxedo and a top hat—handsome kid with night-dark hair. There were also three sheets of paper in the packet. Hannerty’s handwritten top sheet contained seven names of Tommy’s pals, with what he called “last known addresses.” Four of the kids I recognized. Three of the four were Irish mobsters’ kids, bad kids, daddy’s boys who would end up treading in their old man’s footsteps. One name, Tony Palmisano, wasn’t a boy at all. He was a made man—a mobster who had earned a position of respect and authority—in his forties, who dealt in booze and broads. Palmisano was big time, and high up in the KC Sicilian organization, one of Lazzeri’s lieutenants. Though his line was hookers and hooch, he must have crossed paths with Holloway at some point, might even be doing business with him. The Italian and Irish mobs had developed a fragile co-existence since the war. But the end of prohibition was likely to change those dynamics. I could see why the old man wasn’t so hot about the gang Tommy ran with.

  I flipped the sheet face down and looked at the second. It listed Tommy’s hangouts, most of them in the jazz district. The Krazy Kat was among them. Hannerty had written something about each. As I read his notes, a fella walking by bumped my shoulder. My coffee splashed on the sheet.

  “Sorry, Mac,” the man said. He pulled his handkerchief and dabbed at the table and the coffee-stained sheet. “We’re packed like sardines in here at lunch time,” he said. “It’s a wonder the help even can get around.” He kept blotting.

  “That’s okay, pal.” I slipped the damp sheet face down under the folder, and he moved on. My spilled cup was almost empty. As I brought it to my lips, the cup fairy showed with a fresh pot and a rag to finish cleaning up the spill.

  “You’re a doll, Rosie”

  “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Only the pretty ones, babe.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “Your eggs will be right up, Phil.” Off she went to keep Nick’s coffee flowing for the rest of her tribe.

  I noticed the fella who bumped me had taken a seat at a corner table facing me. As he ordered from another waitress, I got a good look at him: nondescript, forties, a sprinkle of gray at the temples. He didn’t look familiar. When his waitress left, our eyes met. He looked away.

  I pulled out Hannerty’s second sheet again. The coffee had smeared the fountain pen scratches to the point it looked like one of those crazy modern art paintings at the Nelson. That was okay. I had already stored the places in my noggin, and I knew the ropes in most of those jazz joints.

  Rosemary showed with my eggs, so I held off looking at Hannerty’s final page. My mouth filled with saliva as she plopped down the plate. “Dig in, bub,” she said, and I did.

  While I devoured Nick’s fine eats—the hash browns crunched a little, just the way I like them—I cased out the clientele. The place contained laborers and suits and even cops, a regular melting pot. That guy in the corner, my shoulder bumper, kept looking at me. And he turned away each time he saw me looking back.

  I quickly came to the final step in my clean-the-plate ritual, the “sopping of remaining yolk with the last triangle of toast” step. I pulled out the final sheet, a handwritten note from Hannerty. Before reading, my eyes sought the guy in the corner. His meal had showed, and he busied himself cutting up a chop. His left hand was covered in a gauze bandage; only his fingers poked out. I felt the overcoat sitting beside me and made sure I’d stuck the .38 in the pocket. I picked up the note and read:

  Mr. Morris, I must tell you that young Thomas, even though he has settled down some since he began working for the judge, has been spending large amounts of money, much more than he earns working for the judge. I assist Mr. Holloway’s accountant with the household finances, and I know that Thomas does not get this extra money from his father. The boy keeps a Stutz Bearcat at a friend’s house, I believe, so his father will ask no questions. Colleen says that Thomas owns the car. I do not know where the boy’s money comes from, or whether it has anything to do with his disappearance, but I felt you should be made aware.

  Respectfully, Conor Hannerty

  I finished the note and looked up. My friend in the corner stuffed a chunk of pork in his mouth but his eyes focused on me before returning to his chops.

  Rosemary slipped up from behind with the pot ready to pour, but I covered the cup with my hand. “Say, Rosie, see that man in the corner—the one with the bandaged hand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Know him?”

  “Nope. He’s not a regular, Phil. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, really. He’s been giving me the fish-eye is all.”

  She looked again at the guy. He seemed completely absorbed in his peas and mashed potatoes. “Gee, Phil, maybe he’s a regular Nancy, and he’s carrying a torch for you. You all done here?”

  “Yeah, doll, great eats. And you’re my gal, Rosie. That guy in the corner will just have to find someone else.” I gave her a fin and told her to keep the change.

  Hannerty had provided a lot to chew on. And I still didn’t know what to make of Colleen already knowing about Sammy. That question could wait until we met at the Krazy Kat. Right then I needed to have a little talk with that Nancy boy over there. I stuffed Hannerty’s notes back in the packet, grabbed my overcoat and hat, and started for the door.

  At the door, I donned the overcoat and hat and looked over my shoulder. My friend hurriedly flagged down his waitress and scrambled to pay his bill, his hat already on his head. Good. I would wait for him around the corner outside. I touched the cold steel in my coat pocket.

  I stepped a few feet into the alley and leaned against the brick wall on the north side of Nick’s. I craved a smoke but there wasn’t time. My right hand found the grip of the .38, raised it so the barrel pointed down, ready to slide out quick. I clicked back the hammer. Footsteps slapped the concrete and then my shadow hurried by without looking my way.

  “Say, friend,” I said, still leaning against the wall. He stopped and swiveled toward the alley. “Let’s have a little talk about that hand.”

  His mouth tightened and his good hand went inside his coat. I pulled out my rod and showed it to him. “Easy now,” I said.

  He hesitated for a moment, frozen. Then he yanked out an automatic. Before he could point the barrel I put three slugs in his chest. The pattern the holes made in his coat wasn’t my best work, but it accomplished the job and the guy fell real slow like that ape did off the Empire State building. I kicked his gun away and poked him in the side with my foot. He was still breathing. He looked up at me, and I had seen eyes glaze like that before. He wouldn’t last long.

  “Looks like you had a run-in with my dog last night, friend. Who was wi
th you? Who sent you?” Instead of an answer, with his last moment on earth, he offered me his middle finger.

  By then diners flooded out of Nick’s. A couple of cops that had been eating there pushed through. I gave them my story and my .38 and told them that Rosemary would vouch for the fact this lug was following me. Two cop cars arrived. One of them brought Detective Chief Myers and the other held two uniforms, including my buddy from yesterday, Officer Mackey. As the others poked around the body, I spoke to Mackey.

  “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this, Mackey,” I said. “People will talk.” Mackey chuckled.

  “Say, Mack,” I said, “I’m guessing that if a fella was to take the bandage off that goon’s hand, he might find some dog bite marks. I’d lay eight-to-five he was one of the hatchet men that visited my place yesterday.”

  Mackey nodded. “So you’re thinking it was no random robbery then, Mr. Morris?”

  “Call me Phil, Mack. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  Detective Chief Myers left the body and approached. Mackey informed him of the break-in and Sammy’s murder yesterday evening. Mackey specifically used the word murder, which the Chief tossed off with a flip of his right hand. Mackey explained my thoughts about the human blood in my flat and our dead bad guy’s bandage. Rosemary stood at the entrance to the alley speaking to another officer. She gave me an almost imperceptible wave.

  The corpse was “Colin Hardy, a two-bit hood working for Mike Leary,” Myers said. “Leary’s Irish mob used to run all of the booze and gambling in this town until Johnny Lazzeri put him out of business.”

  “Yeah, I know all about Leary and Lazzeri and their little squabble,” I said. “But I didn’t know this mick.” I hoped to avoid ending up at headquarters answering a bunch of questions.

  “Why do you think he was so interested in you?”