“Who’s your friend?”
“You can meet him tonight. Come out to Tommy’s club, The Rose of Tralee, around 8. If you need money, I can pay you.” She took a roll out of her purse as big as a grapefruit.
“If this isn’t enough…”
“I don’t need to be paid for what I’m going to do,” I said, pushing the roll back at her. “Looks like Tommy’s been generous,” I added.
“Material things. A girl needs more,” she breathed softly.
“How much more, baby?”
She smiled. Next thing I knew she was in my lap, her arms around my neck, and her tongue down my throat.
I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She whispered, “Fuck me,” a phrase that you didn’t hear from nice girls, but I hadn’t been with a nice girl since Mary Agnes Murphy back in 1917 before I joined the army. I must have made some impression on Mary Agnes, because when I was in France, she became a nun.
I had known bad girls from Paris to Havana. And Claire was definitely a bad girl. She made love like an alley cat—the scratches on my back would hurt for days. It was a great ride, especially since I’d been without for four years.
We went at it a couple more times and when it was over, I said, “You were swell, baby. I like the way you move.”
“No complaints from me either, big boy.” Claire planted a honey-cooler on my lips and went into the bathroom.
She came out wearing a silk kimono, sat at her dressing table, and proceeded to fix her hair and makeup. I dressed and she walked me to the door.
“You’ll be out to the club by 8?”
“Yes.” I leaned in to kiss her.
She turned her head. “Jake, my makeup.”
“Sure,” I said, and left.
Back at Izzy’s, I cleaned up and changed into my new tux, transferred the Luger to that outfit, and grabbed my hat and coat.
Izzy had gone home, which was good. The less he knew, the less he would worry.
It was cold in the Overland as I drove out Fort Road. The heap had no heater and I had to keep the windows down so the windshield wouldn’t fog over.
The Rose of Tralee stood on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. It was a nice-looking place, nightclub in front, illegal casino upstairs.
The valet sniffed when I handed him the key to the Overland. I gave him a fin and he put a phony smile on his face.
I checked my hat and coat with a cutie wearing a sexy little green satin number. I ran my fingers through my hair, turned, and came face-to-face with my ex-partner. No, not Tommy Macintyre, but Maurice “Mummy” Lamott. Tall, with hooded eyes and hollow cheeks. Always a menacing figure. We had parted ways early in the ’20s.
“Hello, Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it, fighting off the urge to count my fingers.
Mummy was a hard mug and more than a little dangerous. We went back as far as Franklin Grammar School. His gang had jumped me on the playground and beat the shit out of the “sheeny bastard.” I was saved by Frank Jr. and Tommy Macintyre.
I caught up with Mummy a few days later and kicked his ass. We had sort of a truce after that—never buddies, but we got along in high school. When Frank Jr., Tommy, and I came back from France in 1919, Mummy was setting up a bootlegging operation. He needed tough guys who knew their way around a gun. Tommy and I didn’t see anything better coming our way, so we joined his gang. Frank Jr. declined. He had seen enough of war and his health was frail.
But Mummy was too free and easy with his rod; you never knew when he would start throwing lead. His antics brought down the big machers who ran the rackets in town. Tommy and I were able to square ourselves, but Mummy had to leave St. Paul. He went to work for the Chicago Outfit where his special talents got him in good with Capone. He’d drift in and out of town after that, on errands for the Outfit. Now here he was togged to the bricks, in a fine set of white tie and tails.
“You the doorman?” I asked.
“Always the kidder, aren’t ya, Jake? Na. Ain’t you heard? I’m Tommy’s partner now.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, since last month. He needed someone to run the casino. Now, Jake, I know you’re here to settle a score, but you gotta be careful. Tommy’s no pushover.”
“Shouldn’t you be worried about your partner?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Look, Jake, we been pals since we were kids. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And to tell you the truth, Tommy ain’t the best partner a fella ever had.”
“So you’re telling me you’ll back my play?”
“If I have to.” He pulled back his tail coat and I saw his gun.
Before we could continue, Tommy came walking through the crowd, glad-handing patrons left and right. Then he spotted me.
“Hello, Jake,” he said, but didn’t offer his hand. “You here to see me?”
“We have some business to finish,” I replied, looking into his broad black Irish face.
“I suppose we do. But it will have to wait. I have a club to run and the show’s going to start. C’mon—you can sit at my table and I’ll buy you dinner. I have a torch singer here with a voice like an angel and a face and figure like a Greek goddess.”
Tommy turned to Mummy. “Mummy, before the show starts, check the casino receipts.”
“What about him?” Mummy asked, pointing at me.
“There won’t be any trouble, will there, Jake?”
“Our business waited this long. For a free meal and show, it can wait a little longer.”
Mummy nodded and I followed Tommy to his table. Tommy ordered steak dinners for each of us. This wasn’t the place for conversation, too many people watching. Small talk. He told me I looked thin, I told him he had put on weight.
Then the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up “How Deep Is the Ocean.” A spotlight came on and there stood Claire, clad in a long red evening gown. I could see every curve of her body; the gown had no buttons. She must have shimmied into it. Claire leaned into the microphone and began to sing in a dark, throaty voice.
The crowd that had come for dinner and a show certainly got their money’s worth. Every guy in the place thought she was singing to him, especially when she let go with “The Man I Love.”
When she finished, the applause shook the place and Tommy was beaming. Had the big goon actually fallen for her?
“Want to meet her?” Tommy asked.
“We have to talk.”
“Yeah, we do.” He stood up and walked toward his office; I followed. Claire and Mummy sat at a table next to the office. She gave me a barely perceptible nod; Mummy gave a tight-lipped smile.
“Mummy,” Tommy said, “stay close, I might need you.”
Mummy nodded and winked.
Tommy’s office was paneled in dark mahogany; the wood was dense and made the room practically soundproof, which suited my purposes just fine.
Tommy walked to a small bar in the corner and took down two glasses. He lifted a bottle. “Single malt, twenty years old.”
“Why not?” I said, and he poured.
He handed me the glass and said, “To old times.”
“Some need to be forgotten,” I said, and sat down in a big leather armchair.
“But not all of them?” Tommy asked.
“Not all of them.”
“Well, if it’s going to be business, maybe I should call Mummy in.”
“You know something? You can still be a dumb schmuck when it comes to women.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Tommy said, putting his drink down.
“Claire. She came to see me today, told me you were holding her back, wouldn’t let her go to New York for a radio contract.”
“What?”
“Later I went to the Commodore. She told me you threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave. After that we screwed like minks.”
Tommy looked angry. Double-crossed by a dame.
“Why don’t you call Claire in here,” I sugg
ested, taking out the Luger and setting it in my lap. “Mummy too.”
“That’s how it’s going to play, huh?” Tommy asked.
I nodded and he opened the door and beckoned them in.
They entered and sat down side by side on a small sofa facing me.
Tommy glared at Claire. “So you want to go to New York, huh?”
“What are you talking about, Tommy?” Her voice was so sweet; you’d swear bees were nesting in her mouth.
“Jake told me that you said I’d kill you if you ever left me. That’s how you see our relationship?”
“No, Tommy.” She began to cry. “Kane came to my apartment, forced his way in, and raped me. He told me it was to get even with you.”
I started laughing. “You tell a great story, baby. But I like the one you told this afternoon better.”
“What story?” Tommy asked.
“That the only way out of the relationship was for you to be dead. And since she figured I was going to kill you anyhow, I’d do her a favor.”
“That’s a lie, Tommy,” Claire said.
“Oh, there’s more. She was afraid I might have lost my edge in stir, so she told me she had arranged backup for me, and guess who that is?” I said, pointing to Mummy.
Mummy started to his feet.
“Sit down, Mummy, I’m not through.” I showed him my Luger. “Here’s how I figure it,” I said to Tommy. “Claire wants to be more than just a chanteuse. She wants power. By seducing you she could get it. But you kept it strictly business. So Mummy was her fallback. He was for it. Why not? He’d get a swell dame and your operation. But he didn’t want to go up against you alone. When he heard I was getting out, he assumed I would kill you and then he and Beautiful would take care of me.”
“That’s a great story, Jake,” Mummy said. “But it’s bullshit. I’d have no reason to kill you.”
“Really? Remember that Prohibition cop I killed? He was supposed to be on the take, but someone got to him and paid him more than Tommy and I did. When I was in the pen, I found out who the double-crosser was. It was you, Mummy. You let your mouth run free with one of Capone’s hitters. You remember Santino? When he was sent to Leavenworth, I saved him from a shiv. He told me what you had done. You wanted that booze, you greedy bastard, it was worth a hundred grand. I also know it was you that tipped the law that I was coming back from Cuba. You hoped they’d kill me.”
“How do you know Santino wasn’t lying?” Mummy asked belligerently. “How do you know it wasn’t Macintyre that set you up?”
“Because when we were jumped, it was Tommy that took the bullet meant for me and saved my life. He got patched up by an abortion doc in Minneapolis. Then we both lit out for Cuba, so Tommy could recover. I came back to find the rat that double-crossed us.”
Mummy went for his .38. I raised the Luger and put a 9mm Parabellum slug right through his heart. His pistol fell from his hand.
Claire screamed, “You son of a bitch!” She dug a little automatic out of her purse and aimed it in my direction. Tommy grabbed up Mummy’s .38 and shot her in the head. Her gun went off as she fell and the bullet put a hole in Mummy’s shoulder.
In December, I was behind the wheel of the Duesenberg, driving Tommy to see a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. We shot the breeze about the events.
“Didn’t go as planned,” Tommy said.
“It went better,” I said. Originally, Tommy brought Mummy back from Chicago by offering him a partnership in the casino. We were just waiting for me to be sprung, so I could be in on the kill. We made everyone think I was gunning for Tommy, to throw the rat off base. Mummy should have known, if you harm us, you pay.
“Claire was the joker in the deck,” Tommy said. “But it worked to our advantage.”
We told Frank O’Hara that Mummy had wanted to take over Tommy’s operation and tried to kill him. Claire attempted to stop him. But Mummy shot her with his .38. As Claire fell, she shot him in the shoulder. Before he could get off another shot, I killed him.
Frank went through the motions, but he bought our story because he wanted to.
“You know Claire had talent and would have gone far,” Tommy said. “But I wonder, was she a good lay?”
“Not as good as that Follies dancer in Paris,” I said.
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Now she was a good lay! After this operation I’m going to have to make up for lost time.”
You see, I knew Claire was lying when she said Tommy had made her his mistress. When Tommy took that bullet for me, it clipped a nerve and rendered him impotent.
CHILI DOG
BY CHRIS EVERHEART
Downtown (St. Paul)
Aquick chili dog for lunch and I gotta get moving. There’s never enough time in this racket. I start driving across town at 8 a.m. collecting the receipts, drive all the way out west to Lake Minnetonka to get them looked at, pick up a bundle of cash there, and drive back to the east side of St. Paul, stopping along the way at each establishment to distribute the money. I tell you, it’s a meat grinder. But this is the best part of my day—a quick stop at the Gopher Bar and Café on 7th Street in downtown St. Paul for a beer and a Coney Island—a chili dog piled so high with toppings that you have to eat it with a knife and a fork. This is what accounts for a lunch break—twenty minutes with an axe hanging over my head. Then back on the road again, driving clear out to Hudson to pick up yesterday’s receipts and drop off yesterday’s cash. Hudson is always a day behind because they’re way out there. Benno could front them the money, but he doesn’t trust anyone—not even me. I hate to think what would happen if he knew I stopped here every day, leaving his payroll in the car, even for only a few minutes.
But what the hell am I supposed to do, eat lunch in the car? I ain’t no pig! I hate eating in the car, spilling food all over my custom upholstery. And trying to keep a big Continental on the road and eating a chili dog at the same time is more frustration than I can stand. Hell, if I wanted to work under those conditions I would have taken a job at my uncle’s foam factory over in Northeast and spent my life working on the dock, breathing truck exhaust and wrenching my back every other day. I chose a life on the streets because it had more pizzazz, more excitement, and, for Christ’s sake, more money. Now I end up working for Crazy Benno, still humping an impossible schedule and making minimum organized crime wage. It ain’t fair. So, yeah, I guess my little chili dog break is a “fuck you” to the new gangster order.
I rush out the front door of chili dog heaven, digging a piece of sweet onion out of my teeth, and head toward the parking lot. I hate to leave the car sitting very long. You can’t be too careful when you’re carrying $70,000 in cash. Granted, it’s in a strong box in the trunk and only me and Benno know the combination, but I still get nervous every time I stop— kind of like driving without car insurance: You know nothing is going to happen, but you’re worried anyway.
As I round the corner of the building, headed for my car, someone slams into my shoulder, knocking me down as I say, “What the…?”
Next thing I know, the guy is on top of me. “Where are they?” he says.
I quick reach for my gun but it ain’t there, and I feel a sharp, sweet whack at the back of my head. I look up and there’s this grubby tattooed guy with my gun in his hand.
“He said, where are they?” growls Tattoo, and whacks me again. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, then I realize Dude #1 is digging in my pocket.
“Hey!” I say, as if it’s gonna stop him. I take a swing at him but he’s already on his feet, my keys sparkling in his hand. “Motherfucker,” I yell, “get back here!” But he keeps on going, running toward my Lincoln, Tattoo following.
I immediately stand up, and my head spins. Fucker hit me harder than I thought. I stumble and grab the wall as the bums start my Lincoln and peel out of the space, spitting gravel everywhere. Goddamnit, I just had that thing painted and they’re gonna scratch it all up. As they spin past me and I watch helplessly, I see
Tattoo smile slyly behind the passenger window and wave my gun, taunting me. “SHIT!” I yell. What am I gonna do?
When from around the corner, I hear, “Davy? Are you all right?” I look over to see Curtis, one of the regulars at the Gopher. He’s a small-time hood and a real likeable guy. He’s always nice to visit with on my little lunch breaks. I guess I overlooked him in there today, but I’m happy to see him now.
“Curtis,” I say, “thank God! You gotta help me! These two assholes just did a job on me and took my car.”
“Let’s go,” Curtis says, and from behind him appears a heavyset guy I haven’t seen before. He doesn’t say anything but he moves with us in the direction of Curtis’s car, so I figure he’s with him.
I jump in the front seat, Heavy in the back, as Curtis starts the ignition. “I saw them go toward Jackson Street,” he says. “They’re probably heading up to the interstate. We can catch ’em.” He leaves the gravel driveway and squeals the tires onto 7th.
“Oh man, am I glad you came along when you did, Curtis. I’m dead meat if I don’t get that car back.”
“How much is in there today?” Curtis asks, jerking the wheel to pull around a slow-moving milk truck.
“Over seventy thousand,” I answer. “I gotta get that money or Benno will kill me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Benno,” Curtis says. “We’ll take care of this.”
We reach the interchange at 35E and Curtis automatically takes the northbound onramp.
“Are you sure they headed north?” I ask. “Maybe they kept going east up to 94.”
“No,” Curtis shakes his head, “they went this way. I saw them take this right.”
Thank God he can see what’s going on. My head is still ringing from the thumping Tattoo gave me. We scream up 35E and nearly reach the 694 interchange when we spot my Continental cruising north, just like Curtis said.
“There,” I say. “Hang back a little. Let’s follow them to where they’re going. I’m gonna fuck these guys up when we get there.” I reach for my gun and remember I don’t have it anymore. “Shit, they got my gun.”
Twin Cities Noir Page 21
