But Not For Me

by Jack Kline

  All of a sudden I was in a hurry to get back to the office.

  He stopped the elevator. “There might be trouble up here, Henry. I know you got somebody waiting downstairs, but give me a minute. If you hear gunfire, you hightail it down to the lobby and call the police. If you hear nothing, then go on down and give the folks a ride. Okay?”

  “Okay, Mr. Morris. I wait right here for a time.”

  I moved my .38 to my overcoat pocket, kept my hand on it and hurried down the hall as softly as a breeze blows across the plains. At the office door, I waited and listened—nothing at first, then some papers being shuffled. Slowly and silently I twisted the doorknob, pushed the door open and stepped into the doorway with my gun drawn.

  Jill sat at her desk, a handful of papers held shoulder high, her mouth a gaping “O” like a choir girl in the middle of Ave Maria. The papers fluttered to the floor.

  She regained her composure. “Nice entrance, boss. Does this mean I’m being fired?”

  I examined the room. My office door was closed. “Nobody in my office?”

  “Nope.”

  I slid the gun back into my coat pocket and leaned out into the hallway. “Everything’s okay, Henry,” I called.

  He poked his head out. “Yes, suh, thank you, suh.” I heard the gate slide shut and the electric hum of his descent.

  “Seriously, boss, what’s going on? I thought you were going to blast me.”

  I took the chair across from her desk. “Anybody call or come in today?” I asked.

  “Yes, there were a couple of calls and a man stopped by about an hour ago but didn’t leave his name.”

  “Tell me about the man. What’d he want?”

  “He just asked if you were in and I said ‘no.’” She bent over and scooped the papers off the old oak hardwood.

  “That it?”

  “Well, no. Then he said he would wait in your office.” I frowned, and she mirrored it.

  “You know me better than that,” she said. “I told him you didn’t allow that. I didn’t say except for Rusty. And besides, I told him that I didn’t know if you were coming back in today, which I didn’t because you never tell your secretary those things.”

  “Never?”

  “Well, not often enough.” She went into a pout with a touch of rebuke, but her eyes held mirth.

  “Okay, message received. I’ll work on it.” Her body language softened. “What’d he say to that?”

  “I asked his name and if he’d like to leave a message. He said that it was okay, that he’d run into you again sometime, and then left.”

  “Could you tell if he was armed?”

  “Yes, Phil, he had an arm attached to each shoulder.”

  I said nothing, instead demonstrated my Bela Lugosi vampire stare. She paused a moment in mock horror with her hands held in prayer position beside her pale movie star cheek and her raven hair. “He might have been,” she said. “He kept his left hand in his suit-coat pocket.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Short, brown suit and hat, thirties or forties, ugly.”

  I asked her to lock the outer door and come into my office, said that we needed to talk. She reminded me—with some spunk—that she already had a boyfriend, and I told her that it wasn’t that kind of talk, no birds and no bumble bees.

  I slid my chair back and pulled the bottle of Jim Beam and a glass out of the bottom drawer. Seated across from me, Jill’s lips pursed, and her eyebrows sank. Jill thought I drank too much, and she was in good company.

  I poured only two fingers, threw them down and brought her current on the new case, didn’t go into great detail, but didn’t withhold much. Jill was bright, and the more she knew the better she could do her job. I related meeting with Colleen, but not the dancing or the kissing part. And I told her about Flat Face.

  “So you think that’s the same guy you ran into in front of the courthouse?” Jill asked.

  “I do.”

  “And he might be one of the guys that killed your dog Sammy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Any idea who’s behind all of this?”

  “Lots of ’em.”

  “Lots of people behind the kid’s disappearance?”

  “Not necessarily. Lots of ideas who those people might be. Might be the cops, might be the Irish mob or the Italian mob. Hell, it might be the bookies his poppa’s been betting with.” I wet my whistle. “It might be somebody else. But whoever’s behind the Holloway kid’s disappearance, they play hardball.”

  “Hardball?”

  “Yeah, Jill. It’s a baseball term that means they’re serious about what they’re doing, which brings me back to Flat Face.”

  “Yeah, what do I tell him if he comes back?”

  “Nothing. Until I tell you different you keep the outer door locked. If someone shows, they’ll have to knock. You’ll be able to see the silhouette through the frosted glass. Ask them who they are and if you know ’em let ’em in.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t, tell ’em we’re not open and ask if they want you to leave me a message.” I offered her a smoke, and she nodded. I put two between my lips and lit them, handing her one.

  “I’ve got Henry on the lookout for our shovel-faced friend, and he’s also keeping an eye out for any strangers coming up to the third floor. I’ll tell him to discreetly hang around for a minute or two if he brings any stranger up. If anyone tries to break in, call out for Henry and get on the phone with the cops.”

  “Didn’t you just say the cops might be involved?”

  “I did, but not the whole force.”

  “Okay, understood,” she said. “‘Yell for Henry and call the cops.’”

  I opened the upper right desk drawer. “And I want you to keep this with you.” I held out a .22 with a nine-shell clip. “Know how to use one?”

  She rolled her golden brown eyes. “I’ve got four brothers. But I don’t need that. I’ve already got one in my desk.” She leaned back in her chair. “And it ain’t no .22,” she said with a passable mobster moll twang.

  “Good.”

  She stood. “Anything else, boss?”

  I held up a finger, set the bottle and glass back in their bottom drawer repository and took a long drag of my Lucky while I thought. “Yeah, I’m going to head up north of the river to visit Tony Palmisano. Why don’t you use your wiles and your connections and see if you can find something on Beverly Cresto or Cresting or any Beverly whose last name starts with Crest. Anything on her would be a help.”

  “You got it, but be careful up there.”

  “Aren’t I always?” No answer, just that look she got sometimes, the look as if a fella just peed in her potted plant. I checked my watch. “It’s almost three now. If I’m not back by the time you get ready to leave, send out a search party.”

  “I’ll have ’em start by dragging the river,” she said as routinely as if she were picking up the mail.

  She stood and started to leave. “And Rusty’s in the Plaza beating the bushes for the girl,” I said. “I’m expecting his call. If he calls before I get back, ask him to keep phoning every fifteen minutes or so.”

  “What if you never get back, boss?”

  “Ask him if he needs a secretary.”

  “Oh, and call the Holloway place and see if Colleen Holloway is home,” I added. “Ask her to meet me for lunch tomorrow around noon at Lenny’s Newsroom on 12th Street.”

  She smiled. She thought she was on to me. Maybe she was; I wasn’t sure. “Okay, boss.” She dragged the “okay” out as if it were six syllables.

  “It’s business.”

  “Of course it is.”

  To my surprise, the Plymouth started without any hijinks. I rolled up the Paseo and took the Chouteau Bridge over the river. The Missouri was high and running fast, its water the color of milk chocolate. The dirty river and the dingy sky might make a fella kind of gloomy, make him miss his dog. But I didn’t have time for any of that
sappy stuff.

  I dropped down into the Avondale district and took Bedford Avenue west along the tracks to 10th Street. Two blocks down stood an old three-story brick building, New World Imports. I’d likely find Tony Palmisano there. I’d never met the guy, though I’d seen him at the clubs. He was a natty dresser and always had some hangers-on hanging around. As far as I knew he had nothing against me, at least until yesterday. But if Colin Hardy was on an errand for Palmisano when I killed him or when he broke into my place, then maybe Palmisano did want to grind my ax. And now that I had dusted Hardy, well he might be a little perturbed. I figured it was time to find out.

  I parked around the corner on Swift, so if I had to hotfoot it out of there, they wouldn’t be able to just stand in the doorway and throw lead. They’d have to chase me around the corner and if I had enough of a lead I’d already be behind my car waiting for them. I walked through the nondescript entryway into New World Imports. The front office looked pretty grand, oak paneling with mahogany wainscoting, and a plush burgundy carpet. An attractive young lady sat behind a desk. Not more than twenty. Hair the chocolate color of the Missouri River, only shiny. And she wore it long. Her lipstick reminded me of cherries.

  “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?”

  I took off my hat. “Yes, ma’am, I’d like to speak to Mr. Palmisano.”

  “Is he expecting you, Mister—?”

  “Morris, Philip Morris. No, he’s not expecting me, but I think he’ll want to speak to me.”

  She closed a green and gray ledger on her desk and stood. “I’m not sure if he’s in this afternoon. Please wait here, Mr. Morris.” She strolled down the hall to my left and went through a door.

  I walked over and took a gander at a framed painting of life on the river. It was a Tom Benton, smooth and silky, with the people all elongated. It almost made the river look inviting.

  “You Phil Morris?” The cherry-lipped girl was back, along with two brunos. One of them, the bigger one, had asked the question. He had his hair parted down the middle and wore a business suit, but his charcoal eyes and soulless expression said he was no businessman.

  “Guilty as charged.” I tried a little humor, even smiled and held up my hands in the universal “don’t shoot me” sign. But humor was lost on these boys.

  “Mr. Palmisano ain’t in. He’s gone for the day.” Both of them took one intimidating step forward as if they’d rehearsed it.

  The smaller man said, “You’re not welcome here, Mr. Morris. No need to come back.”

  I didn’t want to fight these two—had a feeling it wouldn’t go well for any of us. And I didn’t want to shoot them, but I did want to speak to Palmisano.

  “Would you boys tell Mr. Palmisano that I’m representing Tom Holloway?” The recognition was instant. “It would meet with Mr. Holloway’s approbation if Mr. Palmisano spoke with me, and also Mr. Holloway’s disgruntlement if Mr. Palmisano refuses.” They looked at each other, and I could see the big words stumped them.

  “Tom Holloway would be pleased if your boss speaks with me and unhappy if he doesn’t.” This time they got it.

  “Well, he ain’t here,” the big man said. “Why don’t you try again tomorrow? And this time call first. Veronica?” The girl had been cringing behind the brunos like she waited for the gunplay to begin. She hurried to her desk, opened a drawer, and produced a business card which she held out to me as if my touch would turn her to stone. I took the card and gave her thumb and forefinger a momentary caress. She flinched.

  I looked at the card.

  New World Imports

  Anthony Palmisano

  Regional Manager – TUxedo 259

  I slipped the card into my overcoat. “Good day, gentlemen. Ma’am.” I made my exit keeping a peripheral eye on the two.

  The blasted Plymouth wouldn’t start, wouldn’t even crank this time, probably the battery. It was downhill to North Tenth Street so I put her in neutral and pushed to get her going, popped the clutch, and I was in business again and headed back towards the Chouteau Bridge. Lucky I didn’t have to make a quick exit, or my Plymouth might have become my Alamo.

  I just had time to swing over to Western Auto on Grand. Turned out it wasn’t the battery but corrosion on the terminal that messed with the connection. I hadn’t kept the terminals clean, and if he were still alive, my dad would’ve been hot. “You take care of your equipment, son, and it’ll take care of you.” How many times had I heard that little homily?

  Once the terminals were cleaned, the old girl fired right up. I decided I’d give her a wash once I got the Holloway kid’s case off my plate.

  Fifteen minutes later Henry and I were on our way up to the third floor. I told Henry about the talk I had with Jill and asked him to hang around on our floor a bit any time he took a stranger up, unless he had other customers. And I asked him to keep an eye on the entrance to the stairwell when he was waiting in the lobby. He said that it would be his pleasure.

  When I told him that there would be another payday for him after the case was settled, he looked sheepishly at his shoes. “Tha’s okay, Mr. Morris. Old Henry don’t need no pay for helping a friend out.”

  I held out my hand to him. “Call me Phil.” We shook on it.

  “Okay, Phil, I’ll watch out fuh Miss Jill.”

  I pulled out my watch, quarter after five. “Jill already leave?”

  “No suh … Phil, she ain’t come down yet.”

  Again I was careful, turning the lock quiet as a mouseling and opening the office door. No boogie men, just Jill sitting at her desk, arms crossed, coat on and purse resting in front of her.

  “You owe me, Phil.”

  “More than I can ever repay, doll,” I said with earnest fervor.

  She picked up a pad and scanned it. “No listing of Beverly Crest-anything in the phone book or the Jackson County tax rolls.” Jill’s boyfriend, Bert, has a friend at the motor vehicle department who has been known to poke around in its records for a pal. Jill told me that no such girl held a license in Missouri and that she didn’t know anyone to ask on the Kansas side of town.

  Checking items off her pad, she said, “Miss Holloway will meet you at the Newsroom for lunch tomorrow, but it will have to be at 11 a.m.” Jill smiled wickedly. “I told her that you would be more than pleased to make any accommodation.”

  I nodded as if I was unaware of her game. “Rusty call?”

  “Twice.” She looked up at the clock on the outer office wall, and I followed her gaze to its yellow face and its relentless clicking pendulum. 5:23. “He said he’d try one more time at 5:30.”

  “Say anything else?”

  “Yeah, boss, he did.”

  “About our girl Beverly?”

  “No. He asked me how I put up with you.”

  I laughed. “What’d you tell him?”

  “I lied. I told him the money was good.” She grabbed her bag and started for the door.

  “Jill?” She stopped and looked at me over her shoulder.

  “Thanks for staying late.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Rusty phoned at 5:30 sharp. He had struck out on his quest to find the restaurant where our Beverly worked. But he said a number of places on the Plaza didn’t open until after five. After checking the ones that were open, he went back to his office to call me, and call me, and call me. I asked him what he was doing for dinner.

  “I’m thinking I might be having dinner on the Plaza if you’re buying,” he said.

  “You are and I am. I’ll pick you up at your office in forty-five minutes. We’ll check a few of the ones that weren’t open earlier and chow down in one.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to drive?” Rusty asked.

  “Nope, just had the Plymouth worked on. Runs peachy now.”

  I poured another two fingers and tossed them down. Odder and odder: the Holloway boy was last seen with a bombshell blonde who didn’t show up on records. Either that or the name she used was as phony as the hair
tonic they passed off as bourbon during Prohibition. Why a fake name? Maybe the kid did run off with the blonde. Both the father and Colleen mentioned it as possible. Miss Cresting seemed to be the key.

  Rusty was waiting outside when I pulled up. He wore no overcoat. The evening air had turned unseasonably warm and humid. This time of year that usually meant a storm would be rolling in from the Rockies in a day or two.

  We tried a half-dozen places. Nobody knew anything about the girl. Around eight, we stopped for dinner at a French place that Rusty said wasn’t open earlier in the day. The place had a name I couldn’t pronounce, but Rusty said the house red was worth drinking.

  A snooty maitre d’ with an over-the-top accent knew nothing about Beverly Cresting. He seemed put out by our request for a table, even though the place wasn’t two-thirds full.

  As he reluctantly led us to a table in the hinterlands, I turned to Rusty, “The house wine better be good.”

  “It is.”

  It was. A young man brought us water and a big bottle of red wine with no labels, as if they’d had it fermenting in the basement. He opened the bottle with no fanfare and told us our waiter would be along shortly. Rusty poured us each a glass. I’m not a wine guy, but I know what I like. The red wasn’t that sweet sugary stuff. It was dry and tasty with a little bite. We clinked glasses and Rusty offered a toast in French that I didn’t understand. I didn’t ask either. I looked around the place … snazzy.

  Our waiter showed on the second glass, and he spoke regular American without any phony accent. The menu was in English except for the fancy names of some dishes. Rusty ordered a roast beef concoction cooked in wine, and I ordered the same. Scanning the room, I saw that all of the waiters were men but there were a number of girls serving bread and refilling glasses. One brought a basket containing a loaf of thick-sliced bread slathered in enough garlic to clear sinuses. She turned to leave.

  “Say, Miss.” She swung back to face me. “Is there a girl named Beverly working here?” Her expression showed surprise and a touch of panic. “We’re not cops,” I added. “Just looking for an old friend.”