by Rusk, Day
Walter was one of the paper’s oldest employees; a throwback to the day and age of the hardboiled reporter who chased stories hard and drank just as hard after doing so; the type of reporter who had no problem rubbing shoulders with the city’s murderers and thugs, if the end result was a story revealing the nefarious action, deeds and dealings by those same murderers and thugs. In Walter’s day, there had been a lot more criminals of the type he liked to report on; the old school mobsters who ran houses of ill-repute and illegal gambling dens. Petty criminals and just plain old murderers; times had changed, and there were a lot more white collar criminals than in the old days, and Leslie knew, that at his advanced age, Walter had no idea how to make heads or tails out of these criminals and their crimes – and, to tell the truth, really didn’t give a damn. Walter was also one of Leslie’s oldest friends at the paper; a so-called real reporter who had taken a shine to him when he’d first started, even though he’d always been a part of the paper’s entertainment section.
Leslie read the headline of Walter’s column. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he said, as he got up from his desk and rushed out of his office.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to get down here,” said Walter as Leslie appeared at his office door. Walter hadn’t even looked up; just saw the shadow of someone crossing his desk and instinctively knew who it was.
Morgan Neil Up to Old Tricks...You’ve Got to Give Him a Hand, said Leslie, throwing the newspaper, opened to his column, down on Walter’s desk. Walter picked it up and took a look at it.
“Not a bad headline, huh?” he said. “Do you know what the best headline I ever read was?”
Leslie just looked at Walter. Walter knew he wanted to talk about Morgan, but had decided he wasn’t going to make it easy on him. Leslie knew that because they’d been down this road before.
“I believe it was a New York paper,” said Walter. “It was when Ike Turner died. You remember Ike and Tina Turner? Ain’t No Mountain High Enough? Stuff like that. Well, I believe the headline read, ‘Ike Beats Tina to Death.’”
Walter chuckled. “I don’t know if it was in good taste or not, but I tell you, it caught my attention. Some headline writer had himself, or herself, one hell of a day with that one, wouldn’t you say?”
Walter looked at Leslie, who was still standing in the door just looking back at him.
“You going to come in and have a drink, or just stand there with that dumb look on your face?” asked Walter.
Leslie moved to the chair in front of Walter’s desk, as the old newspaperman, now probably pushing his mid-seventies, but still as sharp as a tack, reached into his desk drawer and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. Drinking on the job was generally not allowed, although when it came to Walter Souchak, a living institution at the newspaper, everyone looked the other way. Leslie figured back in Walter’s day, there were probably enough hidden bottles of liquor lying around the Lakeview Examiner to float the Queen Mary.
“It really isn’t even big news,” said Walter as he began pouring them both a snort. “One sleaze bag taking out another. What was it Bugsy Siegel said? ‘We only kill each other.’ One crook takes out another, who cares, right? I guess it was just the nature of this killing that caught my eye. Also a slow news day. You know how daunting it can get with that deadline looming.”
Walter finished pouring the drinks and moved one to the edge of the desk near Leslie.
“So what, Joe Weldon one of them?” he asked.
“No. He wasn’t one of them,” Leslie said picking up the bourbon.
“His empire has grown, although Joe is one of the old guard. So, Morgan’s killed again. It was bound to happen. Gonna happen again sometime, I assume. City like this will always have crime and crime bosses. But if you’re familiar with the history of organized crime, Leslie you know that not many crime bosses die peacefully in their sleep. Morgan’s bound to go out at the business end of somebody’s hatred; sooner or later. In the meantime, you’re an entertainment writer and novelist. That’s safe. Stick to that. Seen any good movies lately?”
“What if he’s one of the exceptions?” asked Leslie.
“What if he is,” said Walter. “Although I wouldn’t bet on it. The secret to life my young friend, you could say the reason I’m still sitting here, is you have to know when to let things go. Does no good having things chewing you up on the inside.”
“Would you let it go, Walter?”
“What are you going to do about it Leslie? Morgan is a sadistic killer. He’s climbed up the chain of command to the top spot, but he’s still a sadistic killer. You can polish a turd, but it’s still a turd. If the authorities can’t take him down, and obviously, based on Joe’s murder, those within his organization can’t take him down, what do you expect to do?”
Leslie said nothing. He took a sip of his bourbon; a chance to buy some time to think. He had no answers for Walter’s questions.
“Refresh my memory,” said Walter, “how old were you again?”
“Ten.”
“That was a long time ago, Leslie.”
“He murdered my family, Walter. Morgan and three of his thugs. He took everything from me. My parents didn’t deserve to die.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, kid.”
“It never leaves you, Walter. It’s with me every day. The memories.”
“I remember the case kid. One of my stories. Was covering the crime beat even back then.”
“He needs to be stopped.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, kid. Morgan dies, however, and guess what, it doesn’t bring your family back. They’re still gone. As for the city? Morgan dies and within days there will be someone else filling his shoes. It’s like a cancer you cut out, but immediately grows back. Organized crime is fatal, kid; there’s just no cure. We’ve had this discussion before. Nothing’s ever going to take the pain away. You just have to find a way to live with it, that’s all.”
Leslie said nothing; he just sipped on his drink.
Walter got up from his desk and moved to the front of it, sitting on its edge, close to him.
“I’ve been around a long time, kid, always covering the crime beat. The shit the city tries to hide away. I’ve seen a lot and had a lot happen to me over the years. It’s amazing what you think will break you, until you’re knee deep in the shit. We’re often more resilient than we think.”
Leslie looked him in the eye.
“You’ve done well for yourself, but this obsession with Morgan, it isn’t good, kid. You don’t watch out, it’s going to destroy you; destroy everything you’ve accomplished. Give it up, kid. Trust me when I tell you, no one has ever benefited from being obsessed with Morgan Neil.”
Walter took a moment to look at Leslie, who was just sitting there, taking in his words. He tried a fatherly smile.
“So, like I said kid, seen any good movies lately? Far as I’m concerned, movies have gone to hell since Gary Cooper died.”
Leslie was leaning back in his chair, sitting in the dark and revisiting his conversation with Walter. They’d enjoyed the rest of their bourbon with one another, making small talk. They went through the motions, Leslie pretending to be interested in Walter’s take on how some of the local sports teams were playing - pretending he was really listening and not obsessing about Morgan. Leslie had no idea why he kept turning to Walter. It was pretty much the same routine, each time they spoke about Morgan; the same advice from Walter. Deep down, however, Leslie suspected Walter wasn’t telling him everything. It was just a gut feeling, but a powerful one. In all the years they had known one another, Walter had never let him see the file of notes he had taken on Leslie’s family’s murder. Nor did he allow Leslie to look at the files he had on Morgan, collected over the decades. He always said there was nothing in there that would matter to Leslie, but if that were the case, why didn’t he just let him look at them? Walter was hiding something from him, yet he’d never found the courage to confront him
with that thought.
Leslie leaned forward in his chair, reached out and pushed the space bar on his laptop. The screen sprang to life, the only illumination in his dark office. He grabbed the mouse and started navigating his way through his files until he found the one simply labeled, Morgan. He doubled clicked on it and a PDF file marked Crime Family, situated within it, opened.
The screen filled with a standard F.B.I.-style pyramid breakdown of Morgan Neil’s crime organization, with Morgan the sole mug shot at the top, with it branching down to his most loyal lieutenants and captains, to those who were simply soldiers. Leslie had Morgan’s photo circled in red.
He scrolled down, the mug shots of numerous thugs staring back at him. On the third line he stopped and took a long hard look at Sal Lunkin; his picture was also circled in red. Leslie continued scrolling down, until he came to Harry Madwin, another thug circled in red, and finally Alan Clothier, also circled in red. Leslie just sat there, staring into the eyes of both Harry and Alan; two men who had helped alter the direction of his life all those years ago.
Unhealthy thoughts passed through his mind; he had waited this long; waited for justice, but as far as he could tell, there was none coming. That was unacceptable.
chapter SIX
gail RUSSELL poured herself a cup of tea and made her way to the hotel’s window to look out at the city; it was past nine, so the chaos of rush hour traffic had subsided to embrace the insanity of anxious traffic that filled the city for the rest of the day. She took a sip of the Earl Grey and savored the quiet moment this morning had given her. As far as she was concerned, coffee was vulgar and tea cultured; a reflection of where life had taken her.
She turned around and took in her surroundings; from starving artist to the lap of luxury. Along the way she’d often been referred to as an overnight success, but she knew that wasn’t true. It’d be a long hard struggle and she’d been tempted to throw in the towel many times along the way.
The paper lay open to a page advertising her upcoming exhibit in one of the city’s trendiest and swankiest art galleries, the Sylvia Cumming Art Gallery; a place that not so long ago she probably wouldn’t have been allowed in. She took a seat on the couch, a rich-looking number by her own estimate, and contemplated her journey.
She’d been raised by a single father who for one reason or another couldn’t hold down a steady job long enough to keep them in any one place long enough for her to set down roots or make friends. He’d been a loving father; had never mistreated her, but he had his own demons and they’re what drove him. Nevertheless, she was Daddy’s Little Girl and no matter what anyone said, she loved her Daddy dearly; it was just too bad he wasn’t around to share in her good fortune, although for the life of her, she couldn’t imagine her Daddy being comfortable in surroundings such as this; they’d be a little too high falutin’ for his tastes.
She on the other hand, well, she enjoyed it. The good life suited her. She still remembered where she came from, but that was no reason not to embrace and enjoy the here and now.
Gail moved to the bathroom and sat down in front of the large mirror with lights all around it. She’d dreamed of a set-up like this as a young girl. She was very particular about her routine; getting ready to face the world. She believed in always putting her best face forward and took pride in how she looked, and as such, how others perceived her.
Along with hair and make-up, clothes were very important to her. What she wore often reflected her attitude towards the day; it was true that clothes could give one confidence, and at times act as a shield, protecting the wearer from whatever unpleasantness life might decide to throw at you. Gail closely examined the clothes in the large walk-in closet of her hotel suite. There was a lot to choose from. Of late, she’d been mimicking the style of Audrey Hepburn; it wasn’t so long ago that she’d sat down to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s and fallen in love with the beauty and grace of the actress. Further research had demonstrated that Hepburn was one of Hollywood’s best dressed actresses; a woman with style, taste and class. She longed to give off the same vibe, if that was possible in the cynical times in which she lived. Either way, in the back of her mind, she was contemplating the image of the actress and how she could incorporate it into her work once she was finished promoting her latest collection.
She chose a stylish dress from the closet and got dressed. She might be running late, but she didn’t really care. There wasn’t a clock in the entire suite; she had made sure of that before she’d checked in. She had no time for the conventional timing of the real world; she’d observed the average person scurrying around, someplace to be; someplace no doubt, they really didn’t want to be. That wasn’t for her. She’d paid her dues early on, and had gotten off the conventional ride just as quickly as she could.
Her laptop beeped, indicating an email. Gail made her way to it and found nothing of substance there; another art gallery’s schedule for another city she’d eventually be heading to; nothing to worry about today. Many gallery owners had remarked that she should get herself a personal assistant to help her organize her life, but that wasn’t for her benefit, but theirs. She was perfectly fine with the way everything was going. If the galleries got a hold of her and she made it to the showings on time, well that was to their benefit. Actually, she’d discovered that by being unreliable and unpredictable, she’d created an image of herself that made her that much more intriguing to the gallery owners, and that much more in demand. Make yourself available to them and they quickly become bored with you; give them a hard time, and that mysteriousness, translates to them eating out of the palm of your hand. Gail liked others eating out of the palm of her hand.
It was time to go, because she simply had decided it was time to go. She might be early, or she might be late, she didn’t care.
Gail stopped by the end table in the suite’s front foyer and opened the drawer; it looked like an antique, but she figured, seeing how it was in a hotel suite, it was probably just a well-made replica; she smiled as she considered the fact that more than humans wore disguised faces.
She pulled out the small pill box within the drawer and admired it. It probably was an antique, but not something that had been handed down in her family from mother to daughter – hell, she didn’t even know her mother – but something she had stumbled across in a thrift store during her travels. It was one of the first nice things she had bought herself and as such she treasured it. It reminded her of where she had come from and all she had achieved, and it also offered the promise of clarity. She opened the pill box and stared at the various multi-colored capsules within it. It was always a festive scene. She considered them all for a moment and pulled out a purple capsule, popping it into her mouth and swallowing it. She’d mastered the art of swallowing pills without water a long time ago.
It wouldn’t take long, but her purple friend would show her the way; today she wanted to see the truth. Today she wanted all the disguises the world was going to throw at her to melt away. She’d found the secret to that, and credited it for her success in life. She’d discovered a long time ago that going through life ignorant was foolish, and vowed that she’d never be one of those sheep.
Taking her suite key card, Gail picked up her bag and a light jacket and made her way out of the suite.
“Morning, Ms. Russell,” said the hotel’s Doorman as Gail approached him, “Can I get you a cab?”
She nodded her head, Yes, as she looked closely at the Doorman. He was a pleasant enough looking fellow; she’d say in about his late forties; a jovial face, always with a smile, although she imagined that was probably part of the required uniform for the job. He looked to her as he always did and she looked directly into his face; either the purple beauty hadn’t kicked in yet, or she was in the presence of a truly nice man; as long as the truth had been exposed, all was good.
The Doorman hailed a cab; there was never much of a wait; they all knew the hotel catered to the city’s elite and lined up to serve them, the tho
ught of substantial tips helping them bide their time at the taxi stand.
“Where to Ms. Russell?” the Doorman asked.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she said, sliding in the back of the cab.
The Doorman, a quizzical look on his face, just shrugged, closed the door and leaned in to the Cab Driver. “Just drive, I guess,” he said, “She’ll know it when she sees it.”
The Cab Driver looked back at him. He shrugged again and walked away.
The Cab Driver considered questioning the beautiful woman in the back of his cab, but decided against it. It wasn’t like this was his first ever weird request; he’d been driving around the city for many years, and picking up a lot of fares at the hotel, and one thing he had learned over those years was that the rich were just as crazy as the poor. He threw the cab into gear and set off to just drive around.
Gail settled back into her seat; the Cab Driver had yet to speak to her, which was fine, as she had nothing to say to him. The meter was running, that was all he should care about as far as she was concerned.
The city streets started to blur, the colors on the signs, the traffic lights, the clothes everyone was wearing, streaking after or pulling away from them. Gail smiled; her purple beauty was kicking in wonderfully.
As the cab made its way along city streets, the Cab Driver indiscriminately turning down various streets for no particular reason, Gail continued to look out the cab’s window, taking it all in. People’s faces were warped - not quite right. Some of them had an angelic glow, while others seemed darker and more sinister. Her Cab Driver’s face, which she noted kept checking her out in the rear view mirror, was closer to angelic than sinister, so she had nothing to fear.
