Anything But Saintly

by Richard Deming

  She lived in an apartment building of about the same class as Doll’s, only larger. I walked her as far as the foyer.

  “I’m on the second floor,” she said. “Like to come up for a drink?”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “I still have things to do. If you hear any more about Kitty’s murder, will you phone me at the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division?”

  “All right. If I don’t phone, will I ever see you again?” She looked at me wistfully.

  “I might give you a ring. Are you listed?”

  “No.” She took a small white card from her bag and handed it to me. “My phone number’s on that.”

  I put it in my pocket. “What’s your last name?” I inquired, suddenly realizing I didn’t know it.

  “O’Day. Susan O’Day. Jolly is just the name I use for business purposes.”

  “Okay, Susan. Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome, Matt.” Looking at me, she asked, “Going to kiss me good night?”

  “Sure,” I said, tipping up her chin with a forefinger and bending my head.

  She gave me a quick, cool kiss on the lips, then instantly turned and ran up the steps without looking back.

  It didn’t occur to me until I was back in the car and had driven away that she would probably spend the next hour phoning girls to warn them that the heat was on, and not to accept any dates from clients they hadn’t been with before. Momentarily I thought of turning back to nip this in the bud, then I decided the hell with it. The girls weren’t important anyway. What really counted was the ringleader, and we couldn’t touch Little Artie.

  At least we couldn’t touch him on a procuring rap. Maybe I could tag him with a more serious charge which would put him away for good.

  It was only eleven P.M. when I dropped Jolly off. I decided to drive down to Little Artie’s tavern and see if I could get a few words alone with Jake Stark.

  I parked in front of the place just as two men stepped from the tavern. One was a short, dumpy man of fifty with a cranky expression on his face. The other was a tall, unnaturally thin, sad-looking redhead over six feet tall.

  Getting out of the car, I said, “Evening, Lieutenant. Hi, Hank.”

  Lieutenant Robert Wynn said sourly, “Hello, Rudd.”

  Hank Carter merely said, “Hi.” He was always monosyllabic around Wynn.

  Wynn looked me up and down. “You certainly pitched us a curve on the Desmond case, Sergeant. Nowak’s day bartender says Little Artie never once stepped outside the tavern since it opened at nine this morning.”

  “Jake Stark?” I asked.

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Jake is Little Artie’s hatchet-man. You can take that alibi with a grain of salt.”

  The lieutenant snapped, “It would stand up in court unless we produced a counter witness placing Artie at the scene of the crime. Nowak is sore about us questioning him. He’ll probably complain to Nick Bartkowiak and Bartkowiak will complain to the commissioner. You got any more bright ideas?”

  I thought about telling him that I had learned Little Artie wasn’t responsible for the rolling racket and had warned his girls against it. Then I decided he would only demand to know where I had gotten my information, and I couldn’t tell him without violating my promise to Jolly.

  I said, “I’m not paid to have ideas about homicides, Lieutenant, I’m a vice cop.”

  “Thank God for that. What are you doing down here?”

  “Working.”

  “On what?”

  I didn’t exactly dislike Wynn, but he wasn’t my favorite lieutenant. He was a little brass-happy, tending to act as though he were the army officer and the police sergeants and below were the enlisted men. Wynn and Hank Carter had been a team for years, but the lieutenant never called his partner anything but Sergeant or Carter, and Hank always called Wynn either Lieutenant or Sir.

  I said, “When you get transferred to Vice, Gambling and Narcotics, I’ll tell you about all my cases, Lieutenant.”

  His face reddened. “Come on,” he said to Carter, and abruptly walked away.

  Hank Carter flashed me an apologetic smile and trailed after his sour-tempered partner. They climbed into an F car parked at the curb.

  CHAPTER 12

  I continued on into the tavern. The place was packed to the walls and a jukebox was blaring. There were a few coats and ties, but most of the men were in the clothes they wore to their factory jobs. A dozen women, ranging in age from mid-twenty to one who was at least sixty, were next to the bar. They wore either cheap street dresses or skirts and blouses. Probably most of them were employees of the dress factory only two blocks away, out for what they considered an evening of gaiety.

  Little Artie wasn’t around, but I saw Jake Stark leaning on the far end of the bar. He was this side of the bar, not behind it, as the regular night bartender was on duty. He was talking to a dumpy brunette of about thirty.

  I was working my way through the mob toward Jake when I spotted the old man named Dinny seated at the same table where he had been drinking beer that morning. He was all alone, his back to the corner and a half-full beer glass before him, watching everything going on in the tavern. There was a vacant chair next to him. On a hunch I dropped into it.

  “Evening, Dinny,” I said. “Having a ball?”

  He grinned at me, exposing a perfect set of false teeth with bright red gums. “I always have a ball.” Then he examined me more closely. “Hey, you’re one of them cops was in here this morning. Artie called you Matt, didn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh. Buy you a beer?”

  “Sure.” He drained his glass and pushed it toward me. “You have to go after it. There ain’t no table service here.”

  “If I pay, you go after it,” I told him. “You can bring me one too.” I pushed back his glass and laid a half dollar next to it.

  He emitted a cackle. “I guess that’s fair. Can’t blame a lazy man for trying, through.”

  Picking up the half dollar, he carried his glass to the bar and used it as a gavel to attract the barkeep’s attention. Despite the crowd, he got immediate service by keeping up the steady pounding. Ordinarily that sort of thing irks a bartender, but Dinny must have been a pet of the place, for the man behind the bar didn’t seem in the least put out.

  The old man returned carrying one goblet-shaped schooner of beer and one seven-ounce glass. The schooner must have held twenty ounces.

  Setting the small glass in front of me, he slid back into his seat. “These big specials cost forty cents,” he said. “A regular beer is fifteen, but there was only a dime left for you. I had to settle for a short one.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  Lifting the schooner with both hands, he said, “Mud,” and took a long pull.

  I took a sip of mine.

  “Augh,” he muttered with satisfaction, wiping his lips with the back of his gnarled hand. “They serve good beer here. Not too cold, not too warm, but just right.”

  “You spend all your time in here?” I asked.

  “Most of it. That was my retirement plan.”

  “Come again?”

  “I spent forty-three years on the furnace over at Effington Steel. That heat really dries you out. When I retired, I said to myself, ‘Dinny, you’re gonna spend the rest of your life in a barroom drinking beer.’ That’s what I’m doing. I been sitting here day and night since I was sixty-five, and I ain’t had enough of it yet. Know how old I am?”

  I examined his seamed face and white hair. He looked about ninety to me. “I don’t know. You just mentioned you’re over sixty-five.”

  “Most people guess about sixty. But I already told you I retired at sixty-five, and that was some years back. Go ahead and guess.”

  “A hundred and twelve,” I said.

  He cackled. “You got some sense of humor. I’m seventy-eight. Would you ever believe it?”

  I shook my head. “Not by a dozen years.” I meant he looked a dozen years older, but he a
ssumed I meant it the other way and was pleased.

  “Hard work and lots of beer is the formula,” he said. “I broke my back working for forty-three years, never got married and saved my money. I bet I got more in the bank than any ten guys standing at that bar. Plus I got my social security and plant pension.”

  “Then you can buy the next drink,” I told him.

  He shook his head. “Not me, mister. I’m a cheapskate. That’s why I got money.”

  I grinned at him and he grinned back companionably. He said, “This one will last a while, but you can buy me another one later, if you’re still here. Lots of suckers do, just to hear me talk.”

  I said, “If we’re going to put it on a commercial basis, I’ll pick the subject of conversation. How long did you stay here after we left this morning?”

  “All day. Had my lunch and supper here. Except for a couple of dozen trips to the can, I ain’t been out of this chair since the place opened this morning.”

  “Little Artie or Jake Stark leave the place?”

  He regarded me thoughtfully. “I won’t be ready for another beer for some time, but a little whisky might go with this one.”

  I felt in my pocket for change, found a quarter, two dimes and three nickels. “How much is a shot?”

  “Top shelf is six-bits.”

  “I wouldn’t want to shock your stomach,” I said. “How much is bar whisky?”

  He emitted another cackle. “Forty cents. Sixty-five for a double.”

  I don’t think he was really a free-loader. I think he just enjoyed the bargaining. I decided not to spoil his fun by giving in too easily. I shoved forty cents across the table. “Go get yourself a single.”

  “I like a cigar when I drink whisky,” he said.

  I shoved him another dime. “That’s it, Dinny. If you want some potato chips, dig in your own pocket.”

  “I never eat between meals,” he said cheerfully.

  Rising from the table, he went to the bar again and rapped for attention, this time using a coin as a gavel. He returned carrying a shot of whisky and a cigar. I held a light to the cigar.

  When it was going, he said, “Now what was it you asked me?”

  “I asked whether Artie or Jake left here today after my partner and I did.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Want to know when and why?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tossed off his whisky and chased it with a sip of beer. “Augh! It sure is thirsty in here.”

  “You get a nightcap when I walk away,” I said. “Not before.”

  He lifted narrow shoulders in a philosophic shrug. “A double?”

  “As much as you can get for a buck.”

  “I guess that would be a triple,” he said. “Okay. Little Artie took over the bar and sent Jake out about one P.M.”

  Jackpot, I thought. I said, “Sent him where?”

  “To collect that money he paid you from the girl. What was her name? Kitty, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh. How long was he gone?”

  “About an hour. Come back at two.”

  That was interesting, I thought. According to Lieutenant Wynn, Jake had stated that Little Artie hadn’t left the tavern all day. In doing so, he had also provided an alibi for himself. I wondered if Wynn had bothered to ask Artie if Jake had left at any time. It didn’t really matter. I was sure Artie wouldn’t have volunteered the information unasked, and I was reasonably certain he would have lied if asked.

  I said, “What’d Jake have to say when he came back?”

  The old man shrugged again. “Nothing I heard. He took Artie back in the kitchen to talk. I figured he was giving him the money. But I couldn’t hear what they said. Why you asking me all this?”

  Obviously he hadn’t heard the TV report of Katherine Desmond’s murder or, if he had, hadn’t connected her with the girl he overheard us discussing that morning. I didn’t see any point in enlightening him.

  I said, “I’m a nosy cop. Where’s Artie right now?”

  Looking around, he shrugged. “He was here a while back. Couple of guys come in to talk to him and Jake. They went back in the kitchen, so I didn’t hear what they wanted. There’s Jake over at the end of the bar. Artie must be down cellar.”

  He meant in the basement poker game, which probably had started by now, since it was past eleven-thirty. I had never been in Artie’s basement, since cops weren’t very welcome there, but I had heard that Artie and Jake alternated in supervising the game.

  Getting out my wallet, I tossed a dollar bill on the table and rose to my feet. “Go get yourself that triple, Dinny.”

  “Thanks,” he said, scooping it up and rising also. “Don’t go away until I get it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t take money from nobody. Only drinks. I don’t want you to think I’d stick this in my pocket and not buy the whisky.”

  He had a peculiar set of ethics for a cadger. I humored him by waiting at the table until he returned from the bar with a Coke glass half full of whisky.

  When he had slid back into his seat, I said, “Satisfied?”

  “Sure. Here’s mud in your eye.” He raised the glass to take a sip, chased it with beer and said, “Augh!”

  “Drink hearty,” I said, and turned to work my way through the crowd to where Jake Stark stood at the end of the bar.

  Apparently Jake hadn’t seen me come in and hadn’t noticed me talking to the old man, for he looked surprised to see me. He also looked a bit unfriendly.

  “You better not let Artie see you around here,” he greeted me. “He’s sore.”

  I said, “I want to talk to you alone.”

  The dumpy brunette on the bar stool next to him looked me over with interest. “Hi,” she said. “Introduce me to the gentleman, Jake.”

  “You wouldn’t like him,” Jake growled. “He’s a cop. I got nothing to say to you in private, Rudd.”

  “Then let’s bring Artie in on the conversation too,” I suggested. “He’d probably like to hear how you’ve been picking up extra change.”

  He gave me a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll go downstairs and talk to Artie.” I started toward the kitchen. Halfway there Stark caught me by the arm.

  “You can’t bust downstairs now,” he said. “Artie’s busy.”

  “You’re not,” I said. “The kitchen empty?”

  He examined me contemplatively. “What was that crack about picking up extra change?”

  “You know what I meant, Jake. You want to discuss it here in front of everybody, or have a quiet talk in the kitchen?”

  After examining me broodingly for a moment more, he said, “Guys keep passing through the kitchen on their way downstairs. You driving?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Pull around the corner on Clark Street and park near the alley. I’ll be along in five minutes.”

  “Why don’t we just walk out together?”

  “Because I don’t want to be seen leaving with no cop,” he snapped. “I got a reputation to think of.”

  I gave him a humorless grin. “All right, Jake. I’ll wait five minutes. If you don’t show, I’ll be back to talk with Artie.”

  Reversing direction, I walked out the front door and climbed into my car. Pulling around the corner, I parked where Stark had told me to.

  CHAPTER 13

  Jake Stark kept me waiting only four minutes, which led me to believe he was anxious to keep me away from Artie Nowak. The curb-side door opened and he slid in next to me.

  “All right,” he growled. “Now what’s on your mind?”

  “A number of things,” I said. “We’ll start with your little sideline racket. Does Artie know you’re the guy responsible for his girls rolling customers?”

  “You’re nuts,” he said in a voice he tried to make sound indignant, but which had a tremor in it.

  “That means he doesn’t know,” I said. “He’ll beat you silly and kick you out in t
he gutter if he ever finds out. Why’d you ever take a chance like that?”

  His voice climbed a notch. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Rudd.”

  “Oh, can it,” I said disgustedly. “I didn’t come down here to waltz around in circles with you. I’m not just guessing, Jake. I know you talked the girls into rolling customers. You take a cut for promising to protect them against Artie in case they get caught.”

  After a moment of silence, he said in a thick voice, “Who talked?”

  “So you can give her what you gave Kitty? Not a chance.”

  There was another period of silence. Then he said, “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’ll keep it simple,” I said. “You and Artie lied to the homicide cops who dropped by the tavern a while back.”

  “Huh? You’re off your rocker. The lieutenant asked if Artie had left the place today. I told him no, which was the truth.”

  “That isn’t the lie I’m talking about. Didn’t Lieutenant Wynn ask if you had left?”

  In the darkness his eyes were studying me narrowly. “He asked it. Artie told him I hadn’t. Which was also the truth.”

  I gave my head a slow shake. “Between one and two P.M. you visited 125 Ormond Place. The witness isn’t sure of the exact time, but there isn’t any doubt it was you.”

  I was deliberately giving him the impression he had been seen entering Kitty’s apartment house in order to protect Dinny. If he thought my only information was that he was gone from the tavern between one and two that afternoon, he would know the old man was my informant. And I didn’t want to read in the paper that Dinny had been found floating in the river.

  “What witness?” he demanded.

  “That’s a professional secret. We want the witness to live long enough to testify in court.”

  He didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then he said, “You’re bluffing, Rudd. Nobody saw me there because I wasn’t there.”

  I said, “Tell you what we’ll do, Jake. We’ll go talk to Artie. When he hears how you’ve been undermining his call-girl operation, I wonder if he’ll still feel like alibiing for you. I’ve got an idea he’ll admit he sent you to collect the five hundred from Kitty.”