Dark Quarry: A Mike Angel Private Eye Mystery

by David H Fears

  Anguish filled her face. “Afterwards he turned cold and I got suspicious. I saw them together once when they thought I was out—why would they do that, Mike? Set up a marriage?”

  “Nika, it doesn’t mean they killed your father, just because they were having an affair. Maybe they wanted to spare you? And, I can guess why he wanted you.”

  “There’s more. It’s so…so bizzare.” She turned her face and looked full into mine like she was hunting for something good to hang on to, something to believe in against all the pain that was swirling inside her.

  “I’m a good listener, kitten,” I said as gently as I could. I put my hand on the side of her face and she took it in both of hers, held it tightly, and then dropped it and looked distracted.

  “Peter Boyce married my mother. He never divorced me. When I protested they put me in… in that place for crazy people. I was drugged and didn’t know which end was up. I won’t go back there, Mike but….”

  I took in this rare orchid’s discomfort and made it my own. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I excused myself by remembering she was my client, even if I had bedded her. Whether I believed her or her mother, I was doing a great job of acting dumb. I wanted to make all her pain go away. Later I realized I’d made my decision in that moment. Molly was right about me and females in trouble, especially stunningly beautiful women in trouble. I’m a grade A sucker for it all.

  “Where were you married?” I asked.

  “Detroit. He said he had some family there. We eloped. Used a justice of the peace.

  “You have proof of that?” I said, then quickly added, “Just in case I have to confront him?”

  She shook her head and looked lost, then began to cry again. I offered my handkerchief and my shoulder. She always smelled wonderful, but each time she cried I blamed myself.

  “It’s okay if you don’t, Nika. Don’t worry. I can get the records. Now, tell me this—where did you come across your father’s diary?”

  “Under a false bottom to his old trunk. I found it in the cellar. They want to send me back to that place, Mike. I heard them talking. That’s another reason I came to you. I know they had something to do with hiring that killer and they’re on to me.” Her eyes were pleading with me to believe her. She bit her lower lip.

  Nika reached in her purse and handed me a thin leather folder, like an identification holder only longer. Inside were pictures of a dozen of the ugliest men I’d ever seen: Vladimir Stahoff, his brother, Vettski, the shooter that ran from my office, Victor Putinksi, and several other sunken-eyed wonders. Kimbra had given me similar pages, except with different thugs. Even dressed in tuxedos these guys would fit right in to any prison. So there was a connection between the thugs in Jersey and these in Chicago.

  All of the writing was in a foreign language. “Russian,” she said, “—some kind of membership roster. Peter’s not in it and I don’t know any of the others. I speak a little Russian but I can’t translate this. I took it last night when Peter and Mother were out. It was in his strongbox—I’ve seen him getting papers from it more than once.”

  “Sweetheart you need to get this back before he finds out it’s missing.”

  “Yes, I will. They’re visiting his sister in Detroit and won’t be home until late.”

  “Then put it back. As soon as you can. If he discovers it’s missing you could be in danger. Come back to my office and I’ll have Molly photocopy it. As for your father’s diary, the last entry contains some numbers and what I think is an address down state where he contacted the ‘R’ woman. I’m going to drive there and see what I can dig up. I have connecting interests from a case in Jersey with a Russian, and I doubt there’d be two sets of Russians in such a small place.”

  “Can I go? I won’t be in the way.”

  I remembered the safe deposit key. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell her about it, but maybe it was the uneasy undertow of not knowing how much her mother knew. As attracted as I was to Nika, the investigator part of my brain was still grinding along. Things were being handed to me pretty easily—first the diary, and now the roster. I brushed aside the notion that Nika was feeding me this information as part of a plot for revenge, or that she’d had anything to do with the murderous attack at my office, even though it was the night after her first visit that Stahloff and Vettski came calling. But if Nika’s story about Peter and her mother was true, they might be manipulating her, feeding me information to put my head in a noose. Natasha had never acted like an innocent woman, but then she probably couldn’t even spell innocent.

  I was in a turbid riptide. I’d already violated my rule about getting involved with a client. Maybe mumming up about the key was compensating. Whatever the reason, I didn’t tell Nika about it.

  “I’d rather go alone. If you don’t mind me saying so, you’d be too much of a distraction.”

  She wrinkled her nose and smiled like a kid with a shiny red balloon. That gleam flickered in her eyes again.

  The winos had turned on their stools and were taking us in like we were an X-rated film. The thought crossed my mind that each of them might have had their own Nika, decades before, and they’d been driven downhill to drink by her. I felt my brakes beginning to fade, a slippery feeling that should have warned me to go slow. Should have.

  Chapter 33 – Tailed to Mattoon

  For Molly’s safety, I copied the roster myself and sent Nika home to replace it in the strongbox. These Russkis played for keeps. There’d been several unsolved killings in the Chicago area the past few years with Red-mob written all over them, similar to those Ziagorski had pulled for Carty in the Tri-State area. I was betting that the Reds were behind their share of the murders.

  I looked straight ahead when I left the building. If there were still lurkers I didn’t want to tip them off that I knew. I wanted to make it easy for them. Giving the bad guys the shake would mean I wouldn’t know what gulch they’d be waiting in next.

  It was still early. I gassed up the Buick and took a roundabout route to Louie Gordon’s house. A dark blue Chevy stayed well back. It didn’t turn onto Louie’s street. Whoever was following, they were good. I’d know for sure once I headed out of town. Out on the highway there’d be plenty of spots to duck off and see them wheel by.

  Louie wanted a statement on the Tommy gun shooting in my office and I gave him one, complete with Gerard’s cocky mannerisms. It would make for a juicy, readable scoop.

  Louie married a stunning Russian mail-order bride who I hoped could decipher the roster. When she glanced at the photos her pretty face turned Siberian white. It seems these loogans were like Russia’s public enemy number ones, only nastier. She nervously translated the text for me—some personal junk with a code name for each man. I scribbled notes on the copies. She told with a trembling voice about mob crime in her homeland, her eyes alive with fright. Louie made another set of copies in his den. I told him if anything happened to me, to forward his copies to Detective Gerard.

  I rang Molly from Louie’s house and asked her to check on midwest marriage record for Nika and Peter Boyce around the date Nika had given me. I also asked her to see what she could dig up on Peter Boyce, as there was nothing on him in the file. I told her I’d call when I got to Mattoon. Concern loaded her voice, but she stayed professional. It was becoming apparent that I could count on Molly in more ways than the heart. I said small thank-you’s for Molly and Rick. Without them my chances to break such a big case would be much smaller.

  There might have been a hundred of these Russian palookas loose, but thanks to my lucky neck shot, there was one less to worry about. Pulling away from the curb two blocks behind me, the dark blue Chevy swung around the corner and stayed on my tail through traffic. It might have been some of Gerard’s boys. I’d find out soon enough. They likely wouldn’t tail me out of town.

  I made a few wrong turns and circled back to highway 57, then sped south, riding about ten over the speed limit, or just under ticket bait. My shadow hung cautiously back, bu
t stuck. If they weren’t police they were most likely part of the mob.

  The three-hour drive down highway 57 gave me some time to figure things that hadn’t set level with me. If Natasha had been involved in her husband’s death after all, if she’d controlled Nika all these years, in and out of sanitariums, then Peter Boyce was in it with her. When Dad solved the case ten years ago, he told me he checked every angle of motive for Natasha—there weren’t any—no insurance, domestic disturbances, nothing. If the pair was in on Forrester’s murder, there was a silent commie doing a thirty-year stretch in Joliet for their benefit, maybe through threats, or rewards. I wasn’t sure how strong a code of silence Russian mobsters owned, or even if there was one, but something powerful kept the con’s trap shut.

  It was almost two and my stomach started making noises like a draining radiator. Now the Chevy was nowhere in sight, and I hadn’t seen it leave the highway. I pulled into a diner fifty miles north of Mattoon. The lot was full of trucks, so I drove around to a shady back corner. I looked around good, then got out, went in and ordered a steak from a deep-cleavaged, green-eyed redhead who snapped her gum like it was an Olympic event. She swept around to each table, as if in high gear. Every time this bunny bent over and wiggled her ass, the truckers got sore necks and her tips grew. My imagination saw her working a strip pole under blue lights. She was the type, with hard but good looks, the kind that make a man forget foreplay.

  I kept my eye on the door. Whoever was tailing me never walked in. After a too-long wait, the carrot top rumba-ed over to take my order and stared below my waist most of the time. Her motor was running and her gears were meshing pretty good when she walked away. I liked the way her hips swayed hard. She was a chiropractor’s dream.

  This was no time to get distracted. I kept an eye on the front door. A few Teamsters came and went, but nobody with Russian features or brass knuckles. I washed the steak down with a Pabst and relaxed as much as I could, working a toothpick. The place was nearly empty when I paid the check.

  “Where ya’ headed, handsome?” green eyes said as she handed me my change.

  “Mattoon. After some fresh bagels.”

  The top two buttons to her blouse were already open. She gave me a lusty leer and slowly undid the third one, probably to let some of that heat out. She leaned forward and bounced them so I’d get a good look. She’d been working on a nice tan line. “I’m fresh,” she offered, like she was today’s menu special. “What say, on your way back by you could—stop? For dessert?” Her pearly whites would have frustrated any dentist.

  “Maybe—if you don’t snap your gum during the fun” I said, thinking that any of these truckers would give high gear to bed this piece of spice. I didn’t have time to find out, and strangely, my only reaction was amusement. Snapper would be a lot of fun, in or out of the sack.

  I blew her a kiss for the sake of what was left of her audience and made my way to the Buick. When I opened the door, the chrome muzzle of a .32 special came from behind a tree with a big fat thug attached. I thought, real tough guys don’t have chrome guns, but I kept the critique to myself. Just beyond the glint of gun barrel stood Mr. Cadaver with the goatee, the visitor to my office who got away, wearing a smirk as wide as his pinhead pal.

  I took hold of the steering wheel and said: “That’s kind of a sissy weapon for a mug like you, isn’t it, Vettski?” I have trouble keeping those kinds of ideas to myself. My mouth marches ahead without orders way too often. In my occupation, my trap earns more than its share of grief. I didn’t even have time to regret my words this time.

  Something heavy slugged me from the back seat and the next thing I knew I was staring at a spinning pair of brogues. A crashing cymbal melted into a whine and everything went black.

  Chapter 34 – Delayed arrival in Mattoon

  When I came to, I was face down in the back seat with my ankles and wrists tied up in a snug little bundle. Luckily, they’d done a sloppy job of it with some rough twine, the sort of rope that has a few weak strands. I thought of Harry Houdini as I found wiggle room at the wrists. I hoped I might free my hands in time. If I had enough time. I rolled slightly onto my side. The reassuring lump of my Colt was gone, of course. They weren’t as dumb as they looked—nobody could be that stupid.

  I squinted up towards the front. Vettski was driving. Beside him was another head, larger than Vettski’s, with a bad haircut, leaning on the door window. Things were still blurry, like I was underwater. The back of my head was on a hinge, banging on a big rock of pain. The passenger’s head grew a face that sneered down at me—it was much uglier than the backside.

  The big guy backhanded a clammy mitt across my mouth, but it only fired me awake more. I jerked back and felt the rope slip some more.

  Ten minutes later my hands were free, but I kept them under me.

  Goat-face slowed the car and pulled to the shoulder. He spit out some command, which must have been Russian, to the big lout. Whoever invented Russian must have liked the sound of throats clearing and toilets flushing, because that’s all it ever sounds like to me.

  I rolled to the door. “Where we headed, boys? Immigration?”

  “Shut up, mister private gumsock—we drive, let you know when we st-stop,” Vettski stuttered. He kept smoothing his goatee with his index finger, and when he talked the lughead waggled a revolver in my face, like he was directing the philharmonic. Maybe he couldn’t decide which of my eyes to plug first. I could see Vettski’s eyes in the rear view mirror— twitching, pupils narrowed.

  “Anything you say, hophead.”

  Vettski got out and clambered up the hillside. Peering out the rear window I saw him head into a clump of trees. He relieved himself on one of them. I saw my chance. Using the twine I’d untangled from my wrists, I whipped a loop around the big dolt’s neck and twisted with all my strength. He grunted like I’d stuck him. He slapped at me with the gun butt, but I dodged and hooked his arm over the seat, pulling his fat mitt up hard and wrenching away the chrome plated .32. He swung around and stared into the barrel.

  That’s when I showed him my teeth. While he was examining them I put a straight right hand into his nose. He yelped and got a holler half way out before I swung an elbow into his pipes. It was the second mobster I’d disabled with a shot to the throat. I was getting good at it. He doubled over and made gurgling sounds. My fists came down on the back of his neck and he slumped forward, out cold against the dash.

  I untied my ankles just as Vettski stuck his big beak inside the door. His eyes jerked nervously as I backed him out with the revolver. I patted him down and found my .45 in his jacket. It felt good to have my Colt back.

  I walked Vettski up into the stand of trees and made him strip down to his shorts. He had more tracks on his arms than the Union Pacific. I told him to hug the tree he’d just pissed on, and tied his wrists and yanked his shorts down to his ankles, trying not to burn my retinas by looking. I left him to stutter at all the eighteen-wheelers that roared by.

  Back at the car I tied Baby Huey’s hands and feet and booted him out into a ditch full of cattails and fetid water. His ugly head stayed above the surface, but if it rained hard, an act of God would end Huey’s misery.

  I drove back to the diner, went inside and called Gerard’s office. I left a message that he could find Vettski, bareass and tied to a tree ten miles south of the Lone Oak Diner with another Russian wading in a ditch who he might also be interested in. Gerard started to sputter but I put the receiver down and smiled.

  I told the redhead that I was a private investigator, which put her motor back into high purr gear. I related that I’d been waylaid but that the cops were on the way. She gave me a look like I was a banana cream pie, and snapped her gum loud enough to make my ears ring.

  “You keep comin’ back this way, and I’ll think it’s me, sugar,” she said, her hand on her hip and her sway at the ready.

  “Oh, it’s you, honey,” I drawled. “The steaks aren’t that good.”

&nbs
p; ***

  Mattoon’s claim to fame, besides the giant bagel factory, is its location, smack in the middle of a triangle made by drawing a line from Chicago to St. Louis to Indianapolis. It was an ideal headquarters for the Russians to work those three cities, a HQ that the FBI would never suspect.

  My hair was getting a little shaggy, so I headed for the one place in any small burg where a guy can pick up gossip without arousing suspicion—the barbershop. First I used a phone booth outside a brick building fronted by a crooked twirling barber pole. Molly answered on the first ring.

  “Bring me some bagels, willya Mike?”

  “Sure, cookie—will do. Got a marriage license yet?”

  “For us?”

  “Get serious.”

  “Okay, bossman—you’re going to find this pretty interesting, Mike. No record for Peter Boyce and your little Bo Peep—but there is one for Boyce and the Ice Widow a week earlier. In Mattoon of all places.”

  “You sure?”

  “That’s what it says. J.P. tied the knot. A.P Farley.”

  “What else you find on Boyce?”

  “Well, no convictions, if that’s what you mean. The main item is this: he wriggled out of some Polish immigration mess and three counts of possession of a controlled substance.”

  “Details?”

  “Sorry, Mike, not yet. I’m trying to get filled in. It’s like a sealed case by a judge who later got sent up for bribes and died in prison. My source suspects the records are gone. We might get into it but it’ll take time. I’ve enlisted Louie to dig into the paper’s files. Oh, one more thing, Mike—Dad’s in the hospital again. Sorry, but I’m headed up there now.”

  ***

  Joe the barber was wiry and leather-faced—a dead ringer for James Gleason from those old black and white movies, and just as streetwise. I was his only customer. One question and the old boy rattled on for an hour. He was probably so happy to see a paying customer that he would have told me the town history too, if I’d asked. Guys like Joe have an internal compass about character that comes from shaving every kind of puss for so many years. A barber’s chair is like a confessional booth: everybody’s open and the liars stand out. When I asked him if any Russians lived in Mattoon he drew back and squinted at me real hard. He got quiet for a minute, probably taking the slant of my jib, and when then his compass pointed true he told me what there was to know: A dozen families comprised the Russian community east of town, but it was thought they were all related, even marrying cousins. They mostly kept to themselves. He didn’t like them much. They cut their own hair.