Barbary Street Incident, A John Cronin Private Eye Short Story

by Wolf Wootan

  Barbary Street Incident, A John Cronin Private Eye Short Story

  Barbary Street Incident, A John Cronin Private Eye Short Story

  Midpoint

  Barbary Street Incident

  A John Cronin Private Eye Short Story

  by

  Wolf Wootan

  © Copyright 2011, Wolf Wootan

  Smashwords Edition

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  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book my not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  Barbary Street Incident

  A John Cronin Private Eye Short Story

  1947

  When you’re in my business you meet all kinds of people. And you can’t have sympathy for all of them; sometimes you have to be hard, and I’ve been hard with plenty of them. But never let anyone tell you that a private detective has no heart at all, because even old yours truly himself—the old, cold stone of Barbary Street—got to feeling pretty bad once about the affairs of people, especially one big guy that could have broken me in two if he’d had a mind to do it. His name—the only one he had as far as I knew—was Little Caesar.

  The first time I saw Little Caesar he was bending over me slapping my face. I struggled to a sitting position and inspected myself. I had been lying in the gutter, rather grotesquely since I hadn’t moved since I had been dumped there. I used one elbow and the curb to keep myself from slipping back into my old position. Little Caesar was stooping over me, grinning. His huge hulk blocked everything else from sight. Straining my bloodshot eyes, I regained my perception of proportion; he was the biggest man that had ever picked me out of the gutter. My estimations of his size, even minimized as they were, were astounding. He was at least seven feet tall and wide as a moving van. Satchel-like hands hung at his sides. The grin on his pugilistic face was frozen there. He was dressed in a red and black checkered sport coat with Mexican silver conchos the size of saucers for buttons. The pants were of the same material. He had a gigantic straw panama perched on top of his head.

  I moved my left arm; sharp needles of pain shot through it. I felt my head and face — my hand came away bloody. My head was killing me. The big man reached down and took hold of my coat. He lifted me to my feet as if I were a sack of feathers.

  “Hit me again. Once ought to do it. Who are you?” I said sourly as I tried to dust my torn suit off with my bruised right hand.

  “I guess you was mugged. I found you laying here in the gutter just like you are now. Roll you for much, or just a grudge job?”

  He seemed good-natured enough. His voice seemed to come from way down in his barrel chest. I had to look up to see his face.

  “I remember now. I just took some guys in a crap game. I guess they were kind of sore. They ganged up on me.”

  I felt in my pockets and found nothing. I was cleaned out. The big man said something about buying me a drink so I followed him. I was in a daze and I tried hard to regain my senses. He led me to a pub on Purg Street and overflowed a stool. I climbed up next to him and drank the beer he ordered.

  “What’s your handle, bub? Mine’s Caesar. Yeah, they call me Little Caesar, because I’m so dominatin’.”

  He laughed loudly and slapped me on the back, nearly breaking it—and I don’t mean his hand. I answered him after I got my breath back. I was in no mood for conversation, but I felt I owed it to him, so I talked.

  “My name is Cronin. John Cronin. Nothing fancy, just John Cronin. I’m a private detective by profession, but when business slows down, I live off the suckers. Cards, dice, and what have you. I hate sharpers, but I’ve got to live.”

  I looked sideways at him and asked, “You wouldn’t stake me to a fin, would you? Just until tonight. I can get all my dough back tonight.”

  “Sure, Johnnie. I ain’t got much use for dough no more anyways. At least not for long. The boys will finally catch up to me. They always finish what they start out to do. You ain’t got a chance when you rub ’em wrong.” He sounded almost proud. I was puzzled.

  He reached into his pant’s pocket and pulled out a roll and peeled off two bills. They were both fifties. He dropped them lazily on the counter and seemed to forget them. I didn’t seem to forget them. They crinkled musically as I stuffed them into my otherwise empty pocket.

  We sat there a long time, just talking and drinking—at his expense. I usually don’t drink so early in the morning but it was free, so I kept on drinking and talking to him. I liked him. I liked him immensely. I liked the way he talked, the way he drank his beer, the way he scratched his left ear while he talked. Maybe it was the beer, I don’t know; but I liked the guy.

  He kept talking about “the boys” at intervals. I finally became curious enough to ask, “Who in hell’s name are ‘the boys’? Why are they after you?”

  There was a note of irritation in my voice, but he ignored it. He raised his face to the ceiling and roared to some unknown god of which I knew nothing. After his laughter had subsided and the walls stopped shaking, he turned on his stool and faced me.

  “You’re kinda nosy, Johnnie, but I guess all peepers are like that.” He said it with good humor, with no trace of malice. “‘The boys’ are just ‘the boys.’ They’re out to get my scalp since I walked out on ’em.”

  He looked at me and said with emphasis, “You don’t just walk out on the boys.”

  Then he continued, “They wanted me to work a dame over, and I ain’t a woman-beater. They break too easy. I didn’t mind working on them mugs they brought in, but I ain’t gonna maul no woman. The boys got kinda sore when I said no, so I just got up and walked out. I was lucky I wasn’t dimmed then, but Fingers got too close and I tossed him against the rest of the boys. I slipped out then. That was last Monday. They’ll find me pretty soon.”

  I detected a bit of sadness in his eyes, in spite of his sporadic laughter.

  “Why didn’t you fix them? You seem big enough to take care of yourself. It shouldn’t have been hard to show them who was boss.”

  He looked at me sadly.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ against none of the boys. I don’t want to hurt none of ’em. I hope they make their play fast so I won’t have to hurt ’em. I might lose my head. I don’t like to hurt people. I’m just too big.”

  I tried another question. “How about those muggs you mauled for the boys?”

  “Ah, that was different. They was against the boys. They even tried to kill the boys. They deserved what they got.”

  I shuddered as I envisioned Caesar’s gigantic hands twisting off an arm or crushing a man’s ribs without effort. Did anyone deserve such a fate? I eased my conscience by agreeing that they did; then we walked out onto Purg Street.

  As we walked along, I racked my brain for some connection to this giant at my side. He was definitely a member of some small-time gang working the waterfront. At least, that is the way I figured from the way he talked. I remembered some killings that happened back in July. They were small-time operators; they were all mangled unmercifully by some powerful being. It could have been Caesar’s work. I didn’t know what I was stumbling on to, but I decided to stick along with Caesar and see what I could see. And besides, I liked him, even though I thought he mi
ght be the mangler of those men last July.

  My brain kicked it around all day.

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  All the rest of the day we walked from joint to joint, just talking and drinking. I had knocked off the drinking, but Caesar hadn’t.

  I had gone to my room on Barbary Street and changed clothes and shaved. Before I left I slipped my Colt .38 into my overcoat pocket without letting Little Caesar see it. If I was to walk around with a booby trap all day, I wanted to be prepared for anything. Besides, I liked him and didn’t want to see him hurt if I could help it.

  Nightfall found us at a good pool room on Purg Street. I was playing draw poker with some guys while Caesar watched. I was letting them win a little, waiting to make a killing on two or three quick bets. Caesar lounged his huge hulk against a pool table, alternately watching me play and playing a little pool.

  It started raining outside as the twilight turned to the darkness of night. I felt a bit uneasy and on edge. I didn’t know why until the girl came into the poolroom.

  She had on a tan trench coat over a red suit. She had a cloth tied around her head; it was sopping wet. She was small, but long-boned. Her features were pleasant enough, but there was an underlying hardness which I detected in her pale eyes and tight, thin lips. I had seen her off and on all day. That’s what made me uneasy. She was following us.

  She sat down on a stool and ordered a beer. She didn’t drink much, just sipped. Little Caesar didn’t seem to recognize her, so I figured she was to tip the “boys” off when we got to a suitable place for them to bump him off.

  She crossed her legs. The drops of water glistened as they ran slowly down her stockingless calves.

  “Deal me out,” I told the dealer. I stood up and picked up my money. I hadn’t won much; I hadn’t been ready yet, but the girl in the tan coat and red suit changed things. I laughed to myself; dressed in red, just like the dame that stooled on Dillinger. Quite a coincidence.

  Little Caesar was playing pool with a beady-eyed kid, laughing like a lion when he made a good shot, which was nearly every time. Nobody would have thought he expected to get the honor spot in a killing that night. I tapped him on the elbow. I couldn’t reach his shoulder without sending sharp pains through my arm—and motioned for him to follow me. I walked towards the room marked MEN, but before we got there, I opened the back door and stepped into the dark alley. I put my overcoat on, which I had picked up on the way out, and guided Little Caesar down the alley to Mission Street. He didn’t ask any questions until we got to Broad Street. Then he only remarked, “There ain’t no use running. The boys will only catch up with me anyhow. They knew where I was. Mona’s been tailing us all day. I kinda like Mona. She’s pretty, too.”

  So he had known she was following us—and hadn’t said a word! I shivered all over. What in hell went on in that big hulk’s brain? I’d always figured I was pretty tough and full of courage, but Caesar made me seem like a coward.

  We walked clear down to where Barbary meets Bay, keeping to the alleys most of the way. There was a small joint there, a dinge joint, but they weren’t too strict about keeping whites out. We went in and sat down in a booth facing the front so I could watch the door. Caesar drank beer, but I just sat tensely and watched the door.

  I had picked the dinge joint because I thought that that would get Mona off the track. Even if she found us there, I didn’t think she’d come in, because it had a reputation of being a tough joint; besides it was a colored joint. I was wrong on both counts. About 11:30 P.M. she came in, still sopping wet. It was raining hard now. The sea was rough, too. I could hear the smashing waves throwing themselves against the fishing smacks tied up to the wharf. They grated the dinghies against each other, causing a screeching sound. I could hear the dismal, lonely sound of a fog horn somewhere out on the bay.

  Mona walked in without hesitancy, going straight to the bar. She took off her wet trench coat and threw it onto the warped bar. She smoothed her red suit over her body, showing off a good set of curves. She climbed up on a stool and drank rye.

  A couple of big Negroes in the back of the joint looked her over and conversed in low tones. Then they got up and walked to the bar; she ignored them. They didn’t leave, so she moved to another stool. They followed. The black behind the bar fidgeted nervously. Caesar and I took it all in.

  I thought maybe she would finally leave if they bothered her enough. She was stubborn though. Finally the two Negroes started getting rough with her. They started pawing her with their big, greasy black hands. I couldn’t stand that. I got up and walked over to them. I tapped the ugliest one on the shoulder. He turned and looked me in the eye. The bartender was nervously polishing glasses.

  “What you want, small boy?” grinned the big Negro.

  “It’s not nice to paw women that way, or didn’t your Mammy teach you any manners?”

  I tried to look tough, and maybe I did because I was a little sore, but I didn’t look tough enough to scare the guy. He grabbed me by the coat and shoved me across the room. I came back fast and hit him hard. I think it hurt my fist more than it did his chin. I caught his rock-like fist on the jaw, but I sidestepped and most of the blow slipped off to the side. I gave him a knee where it hurts—then the other guy got into it. He was just going to give me a rabbit punch when Caesar got into the brawl. He grabbed the newcomer and picked him up, lifting him above his head. He tossed the dinge across the room, smashing him against tables and chairs. He stayed on the floor, not moving.

  I was just getting ready to dodge a blow from the huge black fist when Little Caesar intercepted it. What followed was something I had never seen before in my life. Caesar took the man’s fist between the two of his. He started squeezing, slowly. The man was hammering away at Caesar’s body and face with his free hand, but he didn’t phase the giant. Finally the big buck stopped hitting Little Caesar. He got nearly white, screamed for mercy. He went to his knees, but Little Caesar kept right on squeezing, crushing the big, black hand. The large Negro finally fainted from pain — then the white giant flipped him over with his unconscious companion.

  I straightened myself up, brushed off my clothes. Caesar sat down at the end of the bar and began playing solitaire with a greasy deck of cards. Mona stared at me from the other end of the bar, where she had moved to during the scuffle. I walked down and sat down beside her. I fished for a cigarette, found one, lit it. I threw the pack down in front of her. She picked it up and got one. I lit it off my cigarette. We smoked in silence for a minute or two.

  Then I said, “Why are you doing this? Can’t those damned boys get someone besides a girl to do their dirty work? Or do you do it because you want to?”

  “I’ve got to live,” was her flat answer. It was a low husky voice; she coughed a little, then went on smoking. It was a bad cough, from the chest.

  “There must be some other way to make money.”

  I was just talking; I had no emotion in my voice, felt none. I was just trying to get her to talk so I could find out something about what was going on. She looked at me and smiled wanly.

  “I’ve tried every other way—believe me!”

  I said flatly, without feeling, “This place good enough?”

  She got my meaning.

  “I suppose so.”

  She was as cold-blooded as the boys and Caesar put together. She slid off the stool and walked to the phone booth. A minute later she came back and sat down next to me again.

  “How long?” I asked, letting smoke leak out of my nose and mouth at the same time.

  “Half hour.”

  “We may as well get comfortable and wait.”

  She let me lead her to the booth I was in before the fight. We passed Caesar and he looked up.

  “This it, Mona?” he asked quietly.

  “This is it. Don’t make it hard on me.”

  Don’t make it hard on her! What did she think it was for Caesar? A picnic? Nevertheless, Little Caesar looked relieved. He got up and moved to the cen
ter of the bar. A noble gesture? He didn’t want us in the line of fire, which would undoubtedly come from the door. I shuddered in spite of the overcoat I still had on.

  “How do you fit into this, Mona?” I asked her. She was leaning against the wall in the corner of the booth. She looked tired and cold. She shrugged her shoulders at my question and looked away.

  “How can you be so damned cold-blooded? Which one of the boys do you go for? Trigger, Mike, or Jess?”

  I had learned their names from Little Caesar during our talks off and on all day. She looked up quickly at my question.

  “Christ sakes! I wouldn’t spit close to any one of the bastards.”

  “Then why are you fingering Caesar for them? What have you got against him that you hate him more than you do them?”

  “Hate Little Caesar? Hell no! He saved me from getting mauled by the boys. Ironic, isn’t it? They’ll get him anyway. There’s no use me going against the grain and getting it, too, is there? What the hell—I like living.”

  She was crying silently, shaking inwardly. So she was the girl Caesar refused to work on. And the boys were forcing her to finger him for them. I stood up and took my overcoat off, transferring the gun to my hip pocket. The big Negro bartender looked at me nervously. He approached me and whined, “Ain’t gonna be no trouble am they, man? I’se sure don’t want no more trouble.”

  “Take it easy, man. There won’t be any trouble,” I lied. He was still uneasy; he kept throwing furtive glances at Little Caesar. The place was empty now, except for the bartender, Caesar, Mona, and me. And of course the two unconscious men against the far wall. One of them sighed, the other moaned.

  “What time is it, Johnnie?” queried Caesar.

  “Quarter till twelve. Fifteen more minutes.”