Gerard turned and started nosing around my desk. He was a mongoose with an itch. His eyes prowled impatiently, then stuck on me.
“All you private snoops are too smart. If you want to stay alive, smarty snoop, get me to Stahloff’s pals before they come back. Why’d the Russian want to take you out? Did you get a good look at the second guy? We deduced that Stahloff ran with another commie mobster named Vettski.”
“You douched that much, eh? Skinny guy, nasty goatee—like one of those dicks from vice?” I said with mock contempt.
Gerard didn’t smile. He flipped open the diary on my desk, then pushed it aside and nosed into a stack of utility bills. “The same.”
“I can’t tell you much,” I said, wondering why my gas bill was so fascinating and hoping he wouldn’t examine the diary closer. “I got off a couple shots in the stairwell, but I missed him. Why do Russians dislike me? Because I’m a guy who gets chills at the sight of Old Glory, get pissed off about them being chummy with Castro, and it really sets me off being unable to buy a good Havana cigar.”
He moved over to my file cabinets, pulled one open; then closed it. Then he walked to the doorway and looked down the hall. “We checked,” he said peevishly. “No blood down there. What was the make of the getaway car?”
“Sorry, didn’t see it.”
“All told,” he said, drawing himself up with a ragged breath to all of five-foot-seven, “You don’t know why two Russians who you don’t know would spray your office with a Tommy gun, and you don’t know what connection they might have to any case of yours, but you don’t have much history in Chicago, and you didn’t get a good look at the mug who got away. Am I missing anything?”
I smirked. “You’re pretty sharp. Been doing this long?”
“I don’t catch why the Russians would wait ten years to extract revenge for your old man sending Vladimir up the river, do you?”
I didn’t answer, but found a hipflask in the top file drawer and took a swig. He went on: “Unless they were worried you might show at the parole hearing—ask questions about the missing skull.”
Gerard knew all about the Forrester case. This told me he’d been digging into it before my call. I decided not to play dumb. A bad memory wouldn’t wash with this cop.
“I thought of that,” I said evenly. A fleeting look of something akin to admiration passed through his eyes. “But I don’t do parole hearings. Everyone knows that. Anyway, I saw no chance of a parole the way the case was played in the papers.”
“I’ll give you one more aim, hotshot,” he said, cracking the knuckles on his left hand and looking more than just a little like Peter Lorre on a bad day. “Give me a reason. There has to be a tie in to Forrester. Are you reviewing the case? We got a call from a judge about your spree in Jersey. Russians there, too. We know all about you D’Angelo.”
Corruption has long arms. “It must be hell being the size of an Emperor penguin,” I said, with a controlled sneer, “—you’re always trying to make up for it.”
Gerard’s eyes went cold. That nerve of his was sticking way out and it felt good kicking it. “If you want to repeat it all downtown, you won’t feel so tall in the morning.”
“Relax. Getting a bushel of lead thrown my way tends to make me testy, that’s all. You’ve got what I’ve got. There’s nothing more to tell.”
He shrugged, told me not to leave Chicago, and left me with a mess to clean up.
Chapter 31 – Nika Waited Up
It was just after two when I got to my apartment. The slice of light under the door told me I had a visitor. The key I kept over the ledge for lonely wandering ladies wasn’t there. Just to be on the safe side I drew my .45. It was empty. I hadn’t reloaded since the Stahloff party at my office. I might have to play a bluff. Still no voice from Dad, or God, or whoever had been helping me, so maybe I was okay. I leaned my ear close to the door. Soft music. No voices. I waited a minute or two then used my key and followed my weapon inside.
Reclining on the couch like Goya’s nude, with Sophie curled up in Nika’s lap. Nika stirred from slumber as if she’d had a sweet dream. Sophie was particular who she snuggled up to. More particular than I was.
Nika fixed her warm and inviting gaze on me, but even more inviting was the sheer black wrapper she had on. Even in my dim and dingy apartment, it was obvious she had all the right equipment. She blinked seductively as if we’d been having an affair for months and this was the way it was supposed to be, me coming home late, her waiting up with lust on her mind.
I stood there taking her in.
She sat up; her upturned breasts pushed against the nightgown. It wasn’t cold in the room, so my guess was those nubs were for me. Sophie bounced off her lap and sat blinking up at me, as if to ask why I didn’t scoop Nika up and head for the bedroom.
“I’ve been keeping a pussy warm for you,” Nika said in a sleepy tone.
“And now you want me to do the same for you, I suppose?”
“The very same…if you’re up to it.”
“So, it wasn’t just a kiss you fantasized about since you were fourteen?” I said, trying to make it light, the husky edge of my voice betraying otherwise.
She stood and swayed just out of my reach in a deliberate dance, her arms open, her eyes full of sleepy heat. She was Rita Hayworth coming on to Glenn Ford in Gilda; She was Cleopatra reeling in Mark Antony—a vision, yet real flesh and bone from heaven. Nika must have practiced her seductive cha-cha; her rhythm was perfect. It was quite a show.
When we met she lifted her face with strange magic dancing in her eyes. She smelled awful good. Vanilla on cinnamon.
She murmured little oh’s as I pulled her mouth close. At the last inch she held back. After she examined my face like a kitten with a bird, her lips brushed against mine, over and over, as she said those oh’s again. She wasn’t in a rush. She knew how to make a man wait. Or suffer.
While she was giving me all those butterfly kisses, her fingers found my zipper. Her eyes sizzled when she found her way inside and I said oh, too, a few times, just to see what sort of duet we’d make. Nika wasn’t shy about holding on to what she wanted; her hands weren’t icy any more.
***
For the rest of the night between eruptions of passion I learned about those ten years in Nika’s life. She was more than experienced—she was polished and desperate. Wherever she’d been, whoever she’d been with, she’d learned from the best. She knew many things, including a few I’d only read about. If there’d been a sketch artist in the room we could have made our own sex manual.
You grow to hate some dames for being too easy and some for being untouchable. A guy needs something in between. Once in a lifetime he may get both extremes in the same package. If he’s lucky enough to be that unlucky, he loves hating her and hates loving her. Some might call a woman like Nika a schizophrenic. But then most would call me a cad, or worse. Nika was confusing ecstasy, a mix that only prodded my conflicted but excitable nature. Uh huh.
Nika was hot ice, a kitten dominatrix—one tempestuous storm of a babe a man never forgets. If you didn’t like one side of her, all you had to do was hang around and the flip side would be along to lift or destroy all your preconceptions. She teased and tantalized then submitted then overwhelmed. She was a candy store and a shot of hot scotch put together. A dame like Nika ruins it for all those lovable women who offer easy consistency, are given to a growing deep bond, mean what they say and show you who they are. But it’s fools like me who let the Nika’s ruin anything.
I knew shortly I might never know the real woman. What kept me going was not knowing her, not being able to understand the facets of her mind and heart and passion—the struggle to know the unknowable.
After our lust was slaked, I expected her to snuggle and spend the night, to show compliant satisfaction. Most women would, especially those who made love the way she did. But Nika rose and methodically dressed like I wasn’t even there. Like she had another appointment.
I pushed up to one elbow and watched her gather her things. She was cool, controlled, not at all the same woman I’d walked in on. I wanted more but knew I couldn’t. Mostly I wanted to ask her what made her tick but my muscles were drugged and my lids wore cement shades.
Nika turned at the door and said: “Don’t forget you’re under retainer. Call me when you figure the diary out.” She left and I gave in to the kind of deep sleep that had eluded me for months.
Chapter 32 – Nika’s Information
A good girl Friday is better than a wife. She can do almost everything a wife can do plus you can lay her off if things get slow. Try to do that with the old lady. Molly had already cleaned up the office and had glaziers replacing the plate glass. A cup of jo steamed on my desk, the sports page whimpered about the Cubs losing streak, and three messages were taped to my phone. Molly figures I can’t lose them that way.
Molly has the best legs in Chicago so I got more done when she wore slacks to work. She always said she’d get more done too, if I wasn’t staring at her legs. She was right. The slacks helped.
One of the calls was from Louie Gordon at the Sun Times, the other from a two-faced reporter on the Tribune, and the last was from the Ice Widow herself, Natasha. The mess from the night before didn’t faze Molly. Not much ever rocked her. She didn’t know about the mess at my place with Nika. Why should she?
During my second cup of coffee I learned that Ernie Banks had gone 3 for 4. Then I told Molly to hold my calls. I opened the diary and picked up where I left off. It seemed more like a business log than a personal diary. Forrester made a lot of buying trips, mostly to the Orient, to Vladivostok and to the Ukraine. His connections and flight times were neatly listed.
In the last dozen pages, the handwriting took off on a jerky, nervous ride, like the guy was on drugs. I wasn’t even sure it was Forrester’s handwriting. Some of the lines were cryptic; some were rows of numbers added at the end. It could have been a different hand that made the last few entries. Phrases and words and numbers were scribbled, mostly indecipherable.
Then there was mention of meeting “R in Mtt.,” I took to be Mattoon, the jerkwater spot downstate, the noted home of a large bagel factory. My instinct told me that answers to all of these cases would be in Mattoon—the Forrester murder, the Russian who escaped the shootout with Freznik and company, the Jersey track ring of Carty and Doak, and maybe even Bergman’s murder. I felt a chill thinking about the connections to my past scrapes with those mobsters. If their underground network was controlled from Mattoon, it was the least likely spot for authorities to look. And, if remnants of the old Purple Gang were still active there, they’d no doubt still have their fingers in a lot of pies, and be as deadly as ever. In business they call it diversifying. In criminology they call it a longer rap sheet.
The last diary entry made the hair prickle on my neck: “If I don’t make the delivery, “R” will not hesitate. She’s killed before. How foolish I was to trust her! I must get Anikka away. My love isn’t enough for Natasha…can’t trust her with the goods—put in a very safe place. 1.8 so far. Maybe it will be enough to buy a way out.”
Definitely Forrester’s handwriting.
I went back through the file on Forrester and read all the clippings. There was nobody connected with the case that was obviously “R.” I wondered where Nika had found the diary.
I dialed the widow’s number. Maybe she’d discovered her daughter had finally gotten her private eye kiss, and then some. A snooty jasper answered and informed me that Natasha was Mrs. Boyce. Two Mrs. Boyce’s must have made things confusing at Christmas. Then he plunked the receiver down and I waited. Hard heels clacked to the phone.
“Mister Angel,” she spat, “You will kindly ignore my daughter Anikka’s ravings. She told me about retaining you. How very silly and unnecessary. Whatever she’s paid, I’ll double it for you. Just drop the matter.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Forrester—Boyce—I don’t serve the highest bidder. Nika means well. And she’s over twenty-one. By the way, she claims she’s Mrs. Boyce, too. Did you get a group rate at the chapel?”
Silence on the line. Then she covered the mouthpiece and said something to someone nearby. I didn’t hear an answer.
Mrs. Boyce came back and said in a louder voice: “Listen. Anikka’s not well. She’s been delicate since—well, you remember how she was when Jason was killed. She never got over it. That’s one reason she’s staying with us. We—we’ve had her in a sanitarium off and on for years. I’m sure you’d be bored by the technical terms.”
“I understand,” I said, pondering the Ice Widow’s newfound compassion.
“Discourage her. It won’t take much. Anikka buckles from any sort of pressure. What did she hire you to do? Review the case? She raves. Don’t be fooled, Mister D’Angelo.”
“It’s Angel now, and I seldom am,” I drawled, fingering the diary. “Fooled that is. It was my father, don’t forget, who cleared you.”
If Natasha knew about the diary, she would have demanded its return. My take was she knew zero. From what I remembered about Natasha, she made her way through life demanding from others. She didn’t shed a tear about Jason, which was one reason the cops suspected her in the first place. When Dad worked the case he began with some idea that she was covering up her involvement, but there wasn’t one scrap of evidence that tied her to Vettski or Stahloff—other than being Eastern European, and in America you can’t finger someone for being born on the wrong continent. Unless you’re Joe McCarthy.
Just as I hung up, Nika stepped through the doorway. She wore a navy business suit with a hemline high enough to stir a dead man. Molly looked up, glanced over at me and started rummaging about the office in a strange sort of way. This should prove interesting I thought. I winked back at Molly.
Nika perched in the chair at my desk, crossed her creamy legs and lit a smoke. I wondered if she practiced those silky moves. I glanced at Molly, who rolled her eyes.
Though her movements were smooth, there was no spark in Nika’s expression, nothing. I might as well have been fat, bald and fifty. Maybe it was Molly in the room. Charm seemed wasted, so I got right down to it.
“Your father made a lot of trips—Tell me what you know about them,” I said, hoping she’d open up some.
“Buying trips. Importing. I went with him once.”
“Who do you think ‘R’ was? A lover?”
Nika’s eyes grew cold. She must have borrowed that expression from her mother. Slowly the frost melted and the sad little girl took over. She began to cry. I looked over at Molly who made mock tears into her hankie and blew me a kiss. If I ever come back as a dame, I hope it’s one like Molly.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “No need for waterworks—just asking. Do you have any idea who ‘R’ was?”
“No. Sorry, Mike. Can we get out of here—go somewhere, have a drink? I need to tell you a few things in private.” She glanced at Molly who kept rummaging. I didn’t look back at Molly when we left. I knew what I’d see.
***
Crossing the street I noticed a brief blur in a dark doorway, like an arm pulling back into the shadows. It could have been a wino, or somebody watching the office. We were headed in the other direction and I didn’t look around. If he followed me to Sam’s, I’d see him come in.
Sam’s Bar around the corner was becoming my second office. It was never crowded and Sam always knew what was going on in the big city. He treated me right.
I signaled for two bourbons, strode past a couple of winos at the bar, and took a back booth where I could keep an eye on the front and not be obvious. Nika slid in close and kissed me. She was warm again and whispered my name a couple of times, like she was asking for my libido to come out and play. I didn’t like her yo-yo routine, and began to see just how fragile she was. Still, she had defiance resting in the mix. She dried her eyes. I lit two smokes and placed one between her lips. Defeat spread over her face, then something sadder than defeat. She spoke softly aft
er Sam left our drinks.
“I’m sorry, Mike. I know I’m a mess.”
“It’s alright, kid. I’m sure you’ve got reasons for the hot-cold routine. It makes it more difficult for a man to know where he stands, is all. Maybe I should give you back your retainer, I—”
She kissed me harder. Hungry. Searching. Her hand slipped inside my shirt and circled her lovely fingernails against my stomach, which sent chills down my legs. She could be an artist, this kid. My arm went around her waist and pulled her close. She laid her head on my shoulder.
Then we each took a long drink and a deep breath. They didn’t help the burning itch we shared. Only one thing helps that, and Sam’s wasn’t the place for it. I scooted back to signal her that I was all about business now. Two can play the hot-cold game.
“I lied, Mike,” she rasped out. “I didn’t think it would be like this with us. I didn’t think it mattered. Oh, when I saw you, I simply didn’t think.” It was coming, whatever she needed to get out, and I felt like the rube, wanting her without knowing why. It was like watching a World Series between two unknown teams and rooting for both of them.
“Let’s keep it business in here, kid. Spit it out.”
“I’m still married. The divorce isn’t final.”
“Is that all?” I said, with a low chuckle. “Don’t give it any thought. I’m not in the market to marry. Anyway, I’m patient.”
“You don’t understand. Peter doesn’t lose easily. If he finds out how I feel about you . . ..” Anguish filled her eyes. She twisted the napkin until it tore. She downed her drink. “There’s more. I think Peter had something to do with my father’s death.”
“Why do you think that?” I asked, eyeing her carefully. “A dead thug named Putinski hired Stahloff. My dad broke the case himself. It was his only case after he retired from the NYPD.”
“I found an old love letter Peter wrote to mother before Dad was killed. They played it real cozy for a year, then acted like they’d just met and were old friends. Oh, it’s so confusing, I know, but he was smooth and attentive and mother pressured me into the marriage. I’d been hurting so long and he was so gentle.”
Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery Page 17
