by Otto Penzler
A man in a faded red uniform with tarnished gold braid stood in front of the double doors. As MacBride drew near, the man reached back and laid his hand on the knob. He opened the door as MacBride came up, and MacBride went inside.
The ante-room was quite dim, and the sound of a jazz band was muffled. To the right was a cloak-room, and the girl came over to take Mac-Bride’s coat. But MacBride paid no attention to her. A man came forward out of the dim-lit gloom, peering hard. He wore a Tux, and he had white, doughy jowls and thin hair plastered back, and he was not so young.
“Your eyesight bad, Al?” chuckled MacBride.
“Oh … that you, Cap?”
“Yeah.”
“Cripes, I’m glad to see you, Cap!”
He grabbed MacBride’s hand and wrung it. MacBride stood still, slightly smiling, his face in shadow, and Al laughed showing a lot of uncouth teeth.
This was Al Vassilakos, a Greek who went over big with the wops and who was on speaking terms with the police. Mike Dabraccio really started the joint, a couple of years ago, but Mike talked out of turn to the old Sciarvi gang, and Sciarvi told Mike to go places. Al was instated by Sciarvi himself, and when Sciarvi got himself balled up—and subsequently shot—in a city-wide gang feud, Al carried on with the club. He’d kept clean since then, but Sam Chibbarro, called Chibby, was back, and MacBride had his doubts.
It looked as if Al was a little put out at Mac-Bride’s imperturbable calm.
“You—you looking for some guy, Cap?”
“No. Just wandering around, Al. How’s business?”
“Pretty good.”
“Mind if I sit inside?”
“Glad to have you, Cap.”
MacBride took off his overcoat and his hat and gave them to the girl. Al walked with him across the ante-room and opened a door. A flood of light and a thunder of jazz rushed out as MacBride and Al went in. Al closed the door and MacBride drifted over to a small table beside the wall and sat down. Al signaled to a waiter and motioned to MacBride.
“Snap on it, Joe. That’s Captain MacBride from Headquarters. Don’t give him none of that cheap alky.”
“Okey, boss.”
Al went over and put his hands palm-down on the table and asked, “How about a good cigar, Cap? And I’ve got some good Golden Wedding.”
“All right, Al—on both.”
“Hey, Joe! A box of Coronas and that bottle of Golden Wedding. Bring the bottle out, Joe.”
“Okey, boss.”
“Anything you want, Cap, ask me. I’ll be outside. I gotta be outside, you know.”
“Sure, Al.”
Vassilakos went out to the ante-room, but he still looked a bit worried.
It didn’t take long for MacBride to spot Sam Chibbarro. Chibby was at a big table near the dance-floor. Dominick was there, too. And MacBride picked out Kid Barjo, a big bruiser swelling all out of his Tux. There were some women—three of them. One had red hair and looked rather tall. Another had hair black as jet pulled back over the ears. The third was a little doll-faced blonde and she was necking Dominick. MacBride recognized her. She was Bunny Dahl, who used to hoof with a cheap burlesque troupe and was for a while mama to Jazz Millio before Jazz died by the gun. The whole party looked tight. A lot of people were there, and many of them looked uptownish.
This Club Naples was no haven for a piker. A drink was two dollars a throw, and the couvert four. If a hostess sat down with you, your drink or hers was three dollars a throw, and her own drinks were doctored with nine parts Canada Dry. A sucker joint.
Joe brought the bottle of Golden Wedding and a fresh box of cigars. MacBride took one of the cigars, bit off the end, and Joe held a match. MacBride puffed up and Joe went away, leaving the Golden Wedding on the table. MacBride poured himself a drink and watched Chibby and his crowd making whoopee.
Presently Kid Barjo got up, wandered around the table and then flung his arms around Bunny Dahl. Dominick didn’t like that, and he took a crack at Barjo, and Chibby stood up and jumped between them. Bunny thought it was a great joke, and laughed. Chibby dragged Barjo to the other side of the table and made him sit down. Barjo was cursing and looking daggers at Dominick.
The jazz band struck up, and Chibby took the red-haired girl and pulled her out to the dance-floor. Barjo sulked and Dominick seemed to be bawling out Bunny. Then Bunny got up in a huff and hurried through a door at the other end of the cabaret. Barjo jumped up and followed her. Dominick took a drink and lit a cigarette and turned his back on the door. But he kept throwing looks over his shoulder. Finally he got up and went through the door, too, not so steady on his feet.
MacBride took another drink and sat back. When the dance was over Chibby and the red-haired girl came back to the table, and Chibby looked around and asked some questions. He shot a look towards the door, cursed and went through it.
MacBride leaned forward on his elbows and watched the door. The jazz band cut loose, and the saxophone warbled. The two girls at Chibby’s table were both talking at the same time, and both of them looked peeved. The small dance-floor was jammed.
Joe came over and said, “Everything okey, Cap?”
“Yeah,” said MacBride, watching the door.
“Maybe you’d like a nice sandwich? Al told me to ask you.”
“No, Joe.”
“Okey, Cap.”
“Okey.”
Joe turned, swooped down on a table that had been temporarily abandoned by two couples. He swept up four glasses that were only half empty, swept out, and came back with four full ones. He marked it all down on his pad. A gyp-joint waiter has no conscience.
The drummer was singing out of the side of his mouth, “Through the black o’ night, I gotta go where you go.”
Chibby came out of the door. He was frowning. He walked swiftly to his table, clipped a few words to the girls. They started to get up. He snapped them down. Then he turned and headed towards the ante-room.
“Hello, Chibby,” said MacBride.
Chibbarro jerked his head around.
“Jeeze … well, hello, MacBride! Where’d you come from?”
“I’ve been here—for a while—Chibby.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Hell … ain’t that funny!”
“Funny?”
“Yeah, I mean funny I didn’t see you.”
“That is funny, Chibby.”
“Yeah, it sure is. See you in a minute, Cap.”
Chibby hurried out to the ante-room. MacBride turned his head and looked after him. Chibby looked over his shoulder as he pushed open the door. MacBride squinted one eye. His lips flattened perceptibly against his teeth, and one corner of his mouth bent downward. A curse grunted in his throat, behind his tight mouth. He looked back towards the door at the other end of the dance-floor.
The two girls who had been sitting at Chibby’s table were now walking towards the ante-room. MacBride watched them go out. A frown grew on his forehead, then died. Joe came in from the ante-room and stood with his back to the door. He was looking at MacBride. His face was a little pale. He backed out again.
MacBride turned in time to see the door swing shut, but he did not see Joe. He stood up and took a fresh grip on his cigar. He walked towards the door and shoved it open. He stood with the light streaming down over his shoulders.
“Goin’, Cap?” asked Al Vassilakos.
MacBride let the door shut behind him. “Where’s Chibby?”
Al was standing in the shadows, his face a pale blur. “I guess he went, Cap.”
“Where’re those two women were with him?”
“They…all went, Cap.”
The red end of MacBride’s cigar brightened and then dimmed.
“Al, what the hell’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Well, hell, I don’t know. They just went out.”
MacBride turned and pushed open the door leading into the cabaret. He strode swiftly among the tables, crossed the dance-floor and went through the door at
the farther end. This led him into a broad corridor. He stopped and looked around, one eye a-squint. He pushed open a door at his left. It was dark beyond. He reached for and found a switch; snapped on the lights. The room was well-furnished—but empty.
When he backed into the corridor, Al was there.
“What the hell, Cap?”
“Don’t be dumb!”
MacBride went to the next door on the right, opened it and switched on the lights. It, too, was empty. He came back into the corridor and bent a hard eye on Al. Then he pivoted and went on to the next door on the left. He opened it and turned on the lights. He looked around. It was empty. There was an adjoining room, with the door partly open.
“Jeeze, Cap, what’s the matter?”
“Pipe down!”
MacBride crossed the room and pulled the door wide open. He felt a draught of cold night air. He reached around and switched on the lights in the next room.
A table was overturned.
Kid Barjo lay on the floor with a bloody throat.
“H’m,” muttered MacBride, and turned to look at Al.
The Greek’s jowls were shaking.
MacBride took a couple of steps and bent down over Kid Barjo. He stood up and turned and looked at the Greek.
“Dead, Al. Some baby carved his throat open.”
“My God Almighty!” choked Al.
MacBride spun and dived across the room to the open window. He looked out. An alley ran behind. He jumped out and ran along, followed a sharp turn to the right. He saw that the alley led to the street. He ran down it and into Jockey Street. There was no one in sight.
He entered the Club Naples through the front door and returned to the room where the Greek was still standing. He looked at a telephone on the wall.
“Listen, Al. Did Chibby make a call in the lobby?”
“I—I—”
“Come on, Al, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I think he did.”
“Okey. He called whoever was in here when he knew I was outside and they breezed through this window. And you’ve been stalling, you two-faced bum!”
“So help me, Cap—”
“Can it! There’s one of three people killed this guy.”
“Jeeze!”
The Greek fell into a chair, stunned.
MacBride called Headquarters.
Outside in the cabaret the drummer was singing, “That’s what you get for making whoope-e-e-e! …”
Out in the street the green sign blinked seductively:
III
Sergeant Otto Bettdecken was eating a frankfurter and roll when MacBride barged into Headquarters followed by Moriarity and Cohen, and Kennedy of the Free Press.
MacBride said, “Otto, that guy’s full name was Salvatore Barjo; age, twenty-six; address, the Atlantic Hotel. Stabbed twice in the front of the neck.”
Bettdecken filled out a blue card and his moon face clouded. “Crime of passion, Cap?”
“Ha!” chirruped Kennedy.
“We don’t know yet,” said MacBride. “The morgue bus picked the stiff up and I closed the joint for the night.”
“How about the Greek?”
MacBride shrugged. “He’s free. I want to give him some rope first. He ain’t tough enough to worry about. He came across with the names of the three broads. Mary Dahl—the one they call Bunny; there was a red-head named Flossy Roote, and the other broad, the one that was originally with Barjo—she’s Freda Hoegh. Flossy’s this guy Chibbarro’s woman, and I understand Freda’s a friend of Bunny’s. Chibby lived with Flossy in a flat at number 40 Brick Street. We went down there, but of course they weren’t there. I parked Corson on the job. Freda and Bunny have a flat at number 28 Turner Street, but they haven’t shown up either. I put De Groot on that job. No doubt they’re hiding out, along with Dominick Maratelli.”
Bettdecken shook his head. “This’ll drive Tony crazy.”
“Yeah,” said MacBride, and headed for his office.
Moriarity and Cohen and Kennedy trailed after him, and MacBride got out of his overcoat and hung it up. He started a fresh cigar and took a turn up and down the room.
Kennedy leaned against the wall and tongued a cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other.
“That guy Barjo always was a bum welter anyhow.”
MacBride snapped, “Which is no reason why he should be knifed in the throat! And this young Dominick—”
“A wise guy,” drawled Kennedy. “A young wop just out of his diapers and trying to be a man about town. I know his kind. In fact, I know Dom. Flash. Jazz. He’s not the only slob this jazz racket has taken for a buggy ride. And take it from me, old tomato, he’s not going to get out of this with a slap on the wrist.”
Moriarity said, “The thing is, after all your gas, Kennedy, who—who did poke Barjo in the throat?”
“Well, first the broad—this Bunny Dahl— goes in,” said Kennedy. “Then Barjo. Then Dominick. Well—I’d say Dominick.”
“Nix,” popped Ike Cohen, swinging around from the window.
“No?”
“The broad,” said Cohen. “The other guys were just covering her. Cripes, from what Cap says, they were all pretty tight. And the broad, having not much brains, would be the first to pull a dumb stunt like that. What do you say, Cap?”
“Not a hell of a lot,” growled MacBride. “I’ll leave the theory to you bright boys. I’m just waiting till we nail one of those babies. But as for the broad rating no brains, I don’t know. And I don’t see where Dominick rates big in brains, either.”
Moriarity sat on the desk, dangling his feet. He said, “Anyhow, I’m inclined kind of to think it was the broad. It looks like a dizzy blonde’s work.”
Kennedy laughed wearily. “Well, if it was, Mory, we’ll have a nice time in Richmond City. All the sob-sisters will sharpen up their pencils. Bunny will put a crack in her voice and try to look like a virgin that this guy Barjo tried to ruin. “I did it to save my honor!” Like that. As if she ever had any honor. Listen, I saw that little trollop in a burlesque show one night, down near the river and—”
“All right, all right,” horned in MacBride. “We can imagine.”
“Anyhow,” said Kennedy, “I’ll bet it wasn’t the broad.”
The papers had it next morning. Dominick Maratelli’s name was prominent— ”wayward son of Alderman Antonio Maratelli.”
MacBride, who had gone home at two, was back on the job at noon. There were reports on his desk, but nothing of importance. Chibbaro and Dominick and the three girls were still missing, and none of them had been to their flats following the murder.
The city was being combed thoroughly by no less than a dozen detectives, and every cop was on the lookout too. The fade-away had probably been maneuvered by Chibby. MacBride thought so, anyway, and it struck him as a pretty dumb move on Chibbaro’s part. For why should Chibby entangle himself in a murder with which, apparently, he was not vitally concerned?
Tony Maratelli blundered into Headquarters a little past noon. He was shaking all over. He was hard hit.
“Cap, for the love o’ God, what am I gonna do?”
“You can’t do a thing, Tony.”
“Yes, yes. I mean—but I mean, can’t I do something?”
“No. Calm yourself, that’s all. Dominick’s in Dutch, and that’s that. I can’t save him, Tony.”
“But, Holy Mother, the disgrace, Cap! And my wife, you should see her!”
“I know, I know, Tony. I’m sorry as hell for you and the wife, but the kid pulled a bone, and what can we do?”
Tony walked around the office and then he sat down and put his head in his hands and groaned. MacBride creaked in his chair and looked at Tony and felt sorry for him. Here was a wop who had kept his hands clean and tried to attach some dignity to his minor office. His record was a good one. He was a good husband, a square shooter and a conscientious alderman. But what mattered all that to the public when his son ran with a bum like Chibbarro a
nd got mixed up in a drunken brawl that terminated in the killing of Kid Barjo the popular welter?
“You go home, Tony,” said MacBride. “There’s nothing to do but hope for the best.”
Tony went home. He dragged his feet out of Headquarters, and he looked dazed. This was tragedy, no less. It was the tragedy of a good man tainted by the blood of his kin. And it is the warp and woof of life; you can’t choose your heritage, nor can you choose your offspring. A man in public office is a specimen eternally held beneath the magnifying glass of public opinion, and public opinion can metamorphose a saint into a devil.
The police net which MacBride had caused to be flung out, seemed not very effective. Three days and three nights passed. No one was apprehended. Kid Barjo was buried, and Moriarity and Cohen attended the funeral—not from any feeling of sorrow or respect for the newly dead. But—sometimes—killers turn up when the dead go down. That was one of the times they didn’t.
At the end of a week the News-Examiner printed a neatly barbed editorial relative to the inability of certain police officials to cope with existing crime conditions. The innuendo was thrown obliquely at MacBride, who took it with a curse. The editorial made much of the fact that a representative of the law had been in the Club Naples at the time of the killing….
“Of course I was there,” MacBride told Kennedy. “But I had no reason to suppose that a murder was in the wind. Drunks will be drunks, and I give any guy a decent break.”
“Some folks think you’re getting soft, Cap,” smiled Kennedy.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
MacBride creaked in his chair and wagged a finger at Kennedy. “You tell those—folks, Kennedy, that I’m just as tough today as I was twenty years ago.”
“Have you seen any more of Tony Maratelli?”
“No—not since the day after the killing. I told him to go home and calm down.”
There was a knock on the door, but before MacBride could reply, it burst open and Sergeant Bettdecken stood there, a banana in one hand and his face all flushed.
“God, Cap, I just got a call from Scofield! There’s hell in Riddle Street. Uh—the front of Tony Maratelli’s house been blown off!”
