by Jack Kline
“Touché,” I acknowledged, and then added, “I do feel pretty old today.”
Colleen smiled. She reached her hand out toward the lumpy side of my head and said “Let me touch the big one. I’ll be gentle.”
I recoiled with a cockeyed grin and a questioning look.
She paused, hand in mid-air. The laughter again. “Not that big one, silly, the one on the side of your head.”
I held still and her hand softly caressed the new contours of the right side of my head. Her touch was gentle but not totally pain-free. I must have winced, for she quickly withdrew her hand.
“You never told me how it happened,” she said.
“In a minute.” I took a sip of coffee. “What do you know about a girl named Beverly Cresto?”
Instant recognition, then her eyes opened wide and her gaze darted around the café. Earnestly, she pushed a lonely remnant of salad around the plate. Then her eyes returned to me, completely composed. “Who?”
“Beverly Cresto.”
Colleen looked up in staged thoughtfulness. “I think Tommy may have mentioned that name, I’m not sure. Why?”
What a load of crap. But I wasn’t sure how to play Colleen on it. There were so few people on my side on this case. I needed her. I needed her help, that is. I decided to go easy.
“Do you remember what your brother said about her?”
“Why? Is it important?”
The girl was good. I decided to level with her to a point. “I think she was the last person to see your brother before he disappeared.” Her eyes darted away again. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth and held it there with her teeth, sucking on it as if it was a hunk of butterscotch candy. I waited to see what she would come up with next.
Colleen swallowed a gulp of the sugar cola and placed it back on the table. She looked at me with those disingenuous blue-green eyes. “I think Tommy may have gone out with her a time or two. That’s all I know.”
“You ever meet her?”
“No.”
She was lying. I waited to see if she would volunteer anything, but the pie showed up with two forks. For a time, cherry pie seemed to be the only important thing on earth for her, every ounce of her consciousness absorbed in the pie, the fork, and the voyage to her mouth.
I guessed that her conscientious eating allowed her time to worry and plot and plan what to say. But damn her, she was gorgeous. I hardly ate a bite and found it hard to concentrate on the task with such beauty an arm’s length away. I found myself transfixed by the rhythmic rise and fall of that frilly blouse as she ate.
It seemed only moments later that she took her cherry-coated fork and dabbed the remaining crumbs, capturing them like flypaper does flies. I watched her meticulously gather the strays. “You still haven’t told me how you were hurt,” she said.
I snapped out of my stupor and watched as she lifted the fork to those luscious lips, interring the crumbs forever. She waited for me to respond.
I looked her in the eyes. “Last night, my partner Rusty and I were asking about Miss Cresto around restaurants in the Plaza.” That brought a slight facial tic. “Four gentlemen met us in an alley and suggested we conclude our search immediately. These lumps and bruises testify to the forcefulness of their suggestion.”
Colleen looked rattled. I felt sure she knew more than she let on, but my instincts told me she had no inkling of our alley rough-house last night.
“Oh, Phil,” she reached out for my head again. I leaned back, avoiding her touch, watching her eyes. “Who were they?” She asked. Her eyes told me she didn’t know.
“No idea; it was dark and they jumped us from behind.” No need to tell her everything.
“How do you know the beating was about that woman?”
“Listen, doll, they made it a point to let us know why they were kicking the piss out of us. They told us to forget about the Cresto girl.”
“Oh.” Colleen stared at pie plate, as if she were checking for escaped crumbs. I kept silent to see what she’d say next. The place was full now; a handful of customers stood at the register waiting for seats to open up.
Our waitress showed, chewing her gum like it had committed some offense. “Get you anything else, honey?” She wanted us up and gone so she could fill the table with more tippers.
“Nope, we’re good.”
The waitress slapped the ticket on the table and hurried off. I took the ticket, wondering if Colleen would try to pay her way—she didn’t. Gingerly, I rose. Using my father’s chivalrous training, I helped Colleen out of her seat. I left a generous tip, paid the lady at the counter and noticed the bank calendar on the wall behind her was a year old.
Outside, we paused awkwardly.
“So what now?” she said.
I assumed the comment was about the case and not some version of innuendo. “My partner and I have a number of leads we’re pursuing.”
“What kind of leads?”
I plucked two cigarettes out of my case, put them in my mouth and lit them, handing one to Colleen. She took it and nodded her thanks.
“Sorry, Colleen. That’s confidential for now.”
“But why? He’s my brother.”
“I’m not going to explain myself, doll. I know what I’m doing.”
“But I might be able to help you.”
“You already have. I’m clear now that you don’t know this Beverly Cresto, but your brother has mentioned her.” She looked down at the sidewalk. When she came back up to me, her lips were stretched thin, as if she had physically zipped them.
The zipped lips reminded me. “Say, you never told me where your brother keeps the Stutz.”
I watched her eyes, expecting another lie.
“Oh, yeah; it’s in a repair garage on the Boulevard three blocks west of the big fire last night. Somebody and Son’s Garage. Alberto’s, maybe.”
It seemed she was being square. “Is it there now?”
“I don’t know. I never thought to look.” Something about the way she said it didn’t jive. But maybe she was only surprised not to have thought of it herself.
“Okay, thanks.” I started to tip my missing hat. “So long, Colleen.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll see each other again. So long.”
I didn’t look back until I crossed 15th Street a block down. She stood in the same spot, cigarette in hand, watching me turn the corner until my steps put a hotel’s bricks and mortar between us.
My Plymouth was parked against the curb a half block down from the Rawlston building. As I drew close, it seemed to sit cockeyed. Once I reached it, the reason became obvious. Both curbside tires were flat. A closer look showed that some wise guy had removed the tube’s valve cores.
I hurried inside. The elevator was in use, between six and seven and heading up. I took the stairs. Even though my legs felt no ill effects from the previous night’s escapade, by floor three the effort made me huff and puff. My ribs ached and my heartbeat throbbed in my head. I understood it as another sign this P.I. had reached his peak and was headed down the other side. But I rationalized it was just the cigarettes and last night’s beating.
The office door was locked. I kept most of my body against the corridor wall which was thick enough to thwart slugs, then rapped on the door. Jill, with a hint of hesitance, asked who was there.
“It’s just me, Jill. Don’t shoot.” I unlocked the door and entered.
“How was your lunch with the lovely Miss Holloway?” Jill’s voice oozed scorn.
“Peachy, thanks for asking.” I shuffled through the mail on the corner of her desk. “Who put the bee in your bloomers this morning?”
She let out a big, Shakespearean actor’s sigh. “I don’t like her. All of that money, always getting everything she wants. And she wants you, Phil, wants you as a play toy. I don’t think she gives a fig for her brother. This is just something new and exciting for her to do.” I kept my mouth shut and let her wind down of h
er own volition.
“She enjoys the role of distraught sister, and if she can get the rough-tough detective to fall for her, all the better. You watch yourself, Boss.” I waited, but she was finished.
“You’re not alone, Jill. Rusty gave me the same speech, only not so eloquently.” I tapped the stack of letters on my palm. “But I’m a big boy. I can handle some spoiled rich girl.”
Jill had begun typing. She stopped and looked my way, looked me straight in the eyes. “Famous last words, Boss. We’ll chisel them on your tombstone next month.” She went back to typing without another look my way.
I headed for my office and stopped in the doorway. “Have you ever even met her?” The clicking keys stopped and she stared at me, saying nothing. I held up my hands, spun around and went into my office. At my desk, my left hand reached for the Jim Beam drawer, but I called it back. Instead, I leaned back in my chair, swiveled back and forth and tried to replay the last twenty-four hours.
Where the hell did Beverly Cresto fit in? For some reason cops from two cities wanted us to keep away from her. Maybe Cresto knew what happened to the kid and if so, maybe the cops were involved. Why did Colleen panic when I mentioned Cresto? And what kind of stiffs followed me and broke into my apartment, killed my dog, vandalized my car? Maybe they thought they could scare me off with that crap, but they accomplished the opposite. They didn’t know how bulldog stubborn I could be. When I got pissed off, I … damn, I needed to settle down.
I slid open the Beam drawer and pulled out the bottle and that grimy glass, then threw down an inch of caramel calmer. I started to pour another but held off, put the cap back on and stowed it away. I stared through the open door and listened to Jill’s rhythmic clicking.
The cop. A cop called this morning. Who? Which one? Was it Patterson, the bastard?
“Jill?”
The clicking stopped. “Yeah, Boss?”
“Who called from the police department this morning?”
“I wondered when you’d think to ask. Detective Chief Myers called.”
“What’d he want?”
“Hang on, let me check my notes.” I rose gingerly, went into her office and just as gingerly sat down in the chair opposite her desk. Jill held the note. “He said that he had some information you might be interested in.”
“What kind of information?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Was it about the shooting two days ago?”
“Boss. He. Wouldn’t. Say. Okay?”
“Sorry, Jill. You still upset about the Holloway dame?”
Another deep sigh. “No, I’m worried about you. I know you loved that dog, and maybe you’re vulnerable now, but you’re slipping. You’re getting careless.” Her look of worry changed to a wry smile. “I feel like I’m going to need to hold your hand on this case.”
My turn to smile. “Look, there’s almost nothing I’d rather do than hold hands with you. But what would your boyfriend say?”
She slapped her hands on her desk, then raised one and pointed it at me as if it were a revolver. “I’m serious. You listen up, you get your mind off your dog, your privates off that fancy rich tart, and keep them on this case, or I’ll be looking for work one way or another.”
I held my arms up during her little speech as if she were about to shoot me. Although I was tempted to toss off her words as banter I thought seriously about the advice.
She interrupted. “Now weren’t you supposed to meet Mr. Callahan right after your little lunch with Miss Holloway?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Jill tilted her head.
“But then my car had the flat tires.”
Her head tilted further. I had I hunch that she saw “sheepish” written all over my face.
“Jill …”
“Call me Miss Marlow, Mr. Morris.”
“Miss Marlow, would you be so kind as to call Mr. Callahan and inform him of my car problems and ask him to please come by my office?” She nodded. “And would you please telephone Western Auto and inform them that I have two flats on my Plymouth in front of our building? Tell them that the valve stems have been removed. Ask them if they can free someone up to swing by and take care of it.” Another nod. “And finally, Miss Marlow, will you call the police department and see if Chief Myers is in and if he has a moment to speak to me?” She was already dialing.
“Thank you, Miss Marlow. I’ll be in my office.” The outer office had become chilly enough to require blankets.
Sitting at my desk, more exasperated at myself than with Jill, I shoved away the desire to open the bottom drawer. Instead, I opened the one above it and grabbed a few sheets of paper. On one, I wrote “Tommy” in the middle and drew a circle around it. Next to it, I wrote “Colleen,” and below that, the old man. Along the top edges of the sheet with arrows linking them to “Tommy,” I put “the Irish mob kids,” “the Italian mob” with a separate arrow to nearby Palmisano. In between the Irish kids and the Italians, I put “Colin Hardy” with a question mark and arrows to both the Irish and Italian mobs.
On the lower right edge, I wrote “cops” and an arrow to Tommy. To the side of cops, I scribbled “Patterson and “Harman (Detroit PD).” Halfway between those two and Tommy, I wrote “Beverly Cresto” with arrows both to the two detectives and to Tommy. And below the detectives, I added “Chief Myers” with a question mark.
In the lower left, I put the senior Holloway’s debt-holders with an arrow to him. In the bottom middle with no arrows anywhere I wrote “Flat Face” with a question mark and below him, I put “who else?” I leaned back and looked at the sheet—too many lines and arrows. I needed to eliminate some possibilities. But how?
The more I looked, the more it all came back to Beverly Cresto. On another sheet, I wrote “Cresto” and the two detectives and Tommy and then I added “Colleen” because she knew more about Cresto than she let on. I began to think of possible tie-ins and doodled as I thought. The doodles had taken over for the thinking when Jill stood in the doorway.
“Phil?” Thank God she’d set aside the Mr. Morris.
“Yes, Jill?”
She smiled. She had one hell of a smile.
“Rusty’s on his way. Western Auto will be out by 3:30. Chief Myers is holding and he told me his time is valuable, and he won’t hold long.”
I thanked Jill and immediately picked up. “Chief Myers, how kind of you to take my call.” I heard Jill’s receiver click off.
“Yeah, Morris, what can I do for you?” He sounded like he had a cold and I pictured that schnoz and the boatload of snot it must carry. The thought that Myers must have to special order his handkerchiefs made me grin.
“You phoned this morning while I was out. I’m sorry I missed you. My secretary said that you had some information for me.”
“That’s right. We’ve been tying up some loose ends on the shooting you were involved in. Turns out that Hardy guy you shot wasn’t working for the Irish mob anymore.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Was he working for someone else, or do you think he was on his own?” No sense ticking the man off that his news was old news.
“He may have been on his own, but our informants tell us that he has been strong-arming for the Italian mob lately.” He paused, apparently impressed with the information he had given and expecting me to be impressed too. “And, Mr. Morris?”
“Yeah?”
“Those were animal bite marks on his wrist and hand—probably canine.”
Myers was full-to-the-brim with old news. “That’s good to know, Chief; thanks. Anything else?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. The way these things work, Mr. Morris, is we scratch your back and you scratch ours.”
I didn’t tell him that I’d already had my back scratched, and even so, that was one half-assed scratch he’d provided.
“So let me ask you this,” Myers said. “Why would someone who works for the mob break in to your place and then follow you around? What kind of case might you be work
ing that would have the mob interested your activities?”
“Gee whiz, I don’t know. I’ll have to check my case load and give it some thought, Chief.”
“Look, Morris, you and I both know this is all about the kid’s disappearance. We can help each other on this. If you go it alone, you’re liable to end up dead like your mutt, or like Hardy. Work with me here. I can help you. Where are you on the case?”
One winter while my father still lived, my mother and I waded through Shakespeare. I was a little young to grasp it fully, but she explained as we went. So much of Shakespeare hides in our language without us knowing it. Like discretion is the better part of valor comes from him. And I knew I could be discreet for Mr. Holloway, yet still give Myers some tidbit to keep him open to communication. But even as a kid I was a damn-the-torpedoes-full-speed-ahead-guy, which wasn’t from Shakespeare.
“I’m glad you’ve offered to help,” I said. “What do you have Detective Patterson working on?”
“Patterson? Why Patterson?”
“Just a hunch. What case is he working on?”
“Tell me your hunch first?”
“I think he might have some knowledge of my case.”
“That’s impossible. He’s on loan to Detroit PD. They’re working on a joint investigation.”
“Involving what?”
Myers sighed loud enough for me to hear. “I’m not at liberty to say. What’s all of this Patterson shit about, Mr. Morris? I have numerous other detectives that I can assign to your case.”
“What do you know about Beverly Cresto?”
Myers paused, maybe honestly considering the name or maybe conjuring a canned reply. I wished I could have seen his face.
“Who?” he answered, and I repeated the name.
“Name doesn’t mean anything to me. Why do you ask?”
“Because last night your detective Patterson and some Detroit detective and two of your uniforms jumped Rusty Callahan and me because we were asking questions about her. They beat us up pretty good, but I expect your detective isn’t feeling so hot today either.”
“You have to be joking.”
