by Simon Swift
Black Shadows
Simon Swift
A Wild Wolf Publication
Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2011
Copyright © 2011 Simon Swift
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.
First print
All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-907954-08-5
www.wildwolfpublishing.com
Black Shadows has been a labour of love. There are far too many people to thank. The dedications are easy...
To Sarah, the love of my life.
To Harvey, the most amazing boy in the world.
And to Ruby, my little princess.
Praise for Black Shadows
“Black Shadows is Raymond Chandler or James Ellroy reinvented for the 21st century. There’s a real authenticity about the period; the setting – New York in the 1940s - the characters – all coming together in a detective story that really hits the heights.
From the dramatic opening onwards, the reader is hooked. It’s a proven formula: a wisecracking detective, exotic female characters and shady gangsters, but here everything works so well.”
Jake Barton, bestselling crime author of Burn Baby Burn
"Black Shadows is a tightly written piece of noir fiction, inviting obvious comparisons to Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett."
HarperCollins
“The setting, the wisecracks, the gangster element, the upright but flawed detective falling for the beautiful woman - what's there not to like?”
Gerry McCullough, author of Belfast Girls
“It is one of the best NY stories I've read. LOVE LOVE that opening - the mention of the shooting and the visual of the bloody steak. Not-so-subtle brilliance.”
Elizabeth Lindberg, New York actress, playwright and author of Dionysus and Out of Sync
“Excellent read. One of the best detective stories I've read. Great characters and a very good plot. The pace is fast and really holds your interest. This one is well worth reading. I highly recommend it.”
John Harold McCoy, author of Bramwell Valley
“If you fancy being drawn into the world of film noir, slick private eyes and femme fatales, this is the book for you. Here's lookin at you, kid.”
Catherine Chisnall, author of Surfacing and Descending
I would like to thank JP Noel, possibly the greatest cover artist in the world. I owe you a huge debt of thanks, buddy. Very soon, Errol Black will be coming to an island near you with a crate of beer under his arm!
I would also like to thank all the amazing people that have contributed in making Black Shadows the fantastic book that it is today. It wasn’t always this good! There is a whole army of you angels out there. You know who you are, and I tip my hat to you all.
Prologue
23 October 1935
Newark, New Jersey
When the shooting started, I was tucking into a nice, bloody porterhouse steak. A generous portion of mashed potatoes, string beans and turnip accompanied it, swimming in the tasty juices from the meat. A half empty bottle of claret stood in the middle of the table and a basket full of bread rolls sat at the edge. Three other men were eating; Terry Shadow was on my right, a small, wiry Irishman faced me, and Dyke Spanner was next to him.
The first few shots took us by surprise, but as they were not meant for us it did not really matter. A small man dressed in a brown suit was firing a pistol, but it was his partner, a larger, angrier, uglier man that was doing the damage, pumping the room full of shotgun blasts. Three of their intended targets were sitting in the far corner, and were all badly hurt in the opening exchange.
Dyke Spanner turned the table on its end, sending the plates of food crashing to the floor, before firing a volley of shots in the general direction of the mayhem. The wine survived, snatched by Terry Shadow seconds before, who was now drinking it straight from the bottle. We all cowered behind the table as it started to splinter before us, firing the odd shot back in the direction from where they came.
"Stop firing that fuckin' gun," shouted Terry in between gulps. "They're not here for us."
He was right. The intended hit was taking a piss in the bathroom. He was shot eight times; suffering mortal wounds to the abdomen, but amazingly didn't die for another 23 hours. The others all joined him in the death roll, as did Terry Shadow only moments after he scolded Dyke Spanner and myself. He died with a third of a bottle of claret in his hand and two clean gunshots to his head.
The moment Terry died I knew that it would change everything. There was no guarantee I would walk out of here alive. In fact, the chances were looking slimmer by the second, as all four of the killers’ targets were now approaching their end. But if I were to survive, my whole life as operative for The Shadow Man Detective Agency would be different.
Terry Shadow was the founder, owner and overall supremo of The Shadow Man Detective Agency. We averaged thirty cases a week, from debt collecting to missing persons. By far the most popular, however, was mob work. We did everything for the wise guys except pull the trigger. It didn’t matter if it was surveillance; tailing future hits, recovery; finding frisky treasurers that tended to go walkabout, or troubleshooting; which just about covered most things. If it paid, we did it. But most often it was security.
New York was full of would-be gangsters. There were regional mobs everywhere, all with their own tribal territories controlling protection rackets, narcotics, gambling and women. Everybody wanted a piece. It was these guys that we dealt with most. Transporting a name safely was a quick and well-rewarded job, even if the risks were supposedly high. Luckily the mobs tended to leave outsiders alone, which made my life a lot easier. We only lost one man in three years and didn't discriminate, working for anybody who paid well. New York wasn't short of those.
The bank balance swelled, but all our reputations suffered. Some weeks we pulled in twenty grand clear and all went home happy. It couldn't go on forever. Don't get me wrong, I didn’t particularly like what we were doing, but it wasn't my conscience that got the better of me. After all, I was only following orders. It had to end sometime. I would never spend all the money anyway, and although I had a reputation as a mob hanger-on I was hardly one of the boys. With Terry dead, the end was in sight. I decided right there and then, as bullets fizzed around my ears and blood splashed all over the carpet, that enough was enough.
It was the silence that broke my thoughts. A faint patter of footsteps, the slamming of a door, and then nothing. I checked myself over and to my surprise I was not hurt. The table was nothing more than firewood, there was broken glass and pints of blood splattered all over the floor, but I was in one piece. I looked over at Dyke Spanner and his smile told me that he too was unhurt. Our third dining acquaintance was gone.
The peace was broken by a stocky, heavy-set man, bleeding desperately from the middle, stumbling out of the bathroom. He had a smoking cigar between his teeth and a rather disheveled fedora in one hand. In the other shaking hand he held a gun, which he raised and pointed at every man in the room before lowering it and swearing resignedly to himself.
Of the other three targeted men, one was unconscious, one was absent and the other groaned aloud in a pool of his own blood. Dyke tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Errol, we should go. We don't want to be caught up in any of this. Let's get the boss to a hospital and scram."
I nodded watching in amazement as the man embraced his unconscious friend before leapin
g to his feet and pointing at me. "Kid, come here."
I looked at Dyke and he shrugged.
"I said come here," repeated the dying man, more in hope than authority.
I holstered my weapon and walked through the debris to the man. The only other survivor had staggered his way through to the main tavern and could now be heard ringing for medical assistance. We all knew it would be too late. Dyke stayed nearby.
Up close he looked exactly the same as in all the news pictures. Although he was physically a small man, he still exuded an aura that a dying man should not be able to hold. His deep-set eyes were wild and darted around, even though he was talking to me and I was close enough to smell his breath. He was sucking a peppermint but he still smelled distinctly of death. His nose was crooked and had been broken many times, his chin square, his ears large but unobtrusive and his lips thin and colourless. He looked like a man I had seen many times and yet he was a man I had only just set my eyes upon.
"Come on Rolly," urged Dyke Spanner.
The last words of Arthur Flegenheimer have since been the subject of much myth and speculation. There are many pages of transcript from an official stenographer, which formed the basis of Bill Burroughs’s 1969 story. To me, most of it was the nonsense of a dying man, a proud, powerful and incredibly vicious, but nevertheless a dying man. The last words he uttered to me may or may not have been similar nonsense. When he finished talking about gloves, Hitler and the trouble with Jews he looked at me square in the eyes and said, "Think big, son, think big. And whatever you do steer clear of the wise guys, they’ll kill you!" and he patted me several times on the back.
Before I could reply, Dyke Spanner grabbed me by the shoulder and hauled me out of there. "The cops are here we gotta go," is all he said.
So I cleaned my hands of the mob, refused all offers, however handsome, and kept to the private stuff. With Terry gone it was now Errol Christopher Black who was the boss. It wasn't fear of dying, most mobsters died on the job that was a fact, but I had lost fear years ago. I simply decided that it wasn't for me anymore and took my low-life standards elsewhere.
Dyke Spanner refused to follow.
Chapter One – The start of something big
Manhattan 1945
I smoked my second to last Lucky, watching the smoke spiraling up, glowing a mournful purple in the sporadic neon from the avenue below, before pouring myself a large Remy Martin and resting my feet on the desk. It looked like being a long evening.
The Black & Wentz Detective Agency sign had lost its shine. Once a handsome, glimmering piece of brass, offering hope and enthusiasm to the many clients who knocked reluctantly on the heavy, wooden door, it was now nothing more than a dull old sign, nailed to a dirty, creaking door that led into a small, cluttered office. Over the years there were fewer and fewer people that would see it.
Inside, the dullness evaporated as soon as the blinds were lifted. The view from my window was fantastic, you could see right over Midtown Manhattan. We were on the 31st floor facing the Empire State Building, a shining beacon of American Architecture, with a great view over the city; the sleaze and the millions of nameless people battling to win the perpetual rat race. I shared this office with my partner Hermeez Wentz and our trusty secretary Ava Jameson, who were both out, probably at home with their feet up and the zzzs rapidly approaching.
I drained the Remy, lit my last Lucky and got ready to hit the paperwork. My first day back from a long vacation had been uneventful, and the pile of bills, which had been growing over the last few weeks, was still goading me from the desk in the corner.
Then suddenly She entered the scene. I should have felt it immediately. She had trouble written all over her beautiful face. Sure she caught me at a bad time, I was tired, bored and my resolve was weakening. I was always a sucker for a good mystery and a good looker. She didn't disappoint on either score.
She had long, dark brown hair, straight down to her shoulders with curls at the end. She was wearing a classy, black evening gown that revealed just enough to accentuate her curvy figure without cheapening the effect, with a tiny, red cardigan, buttoned only at the neck. A delicate gold watch and a sparkling diamond ring were the only jewelry on show. The ring was on the wrong finger, unless you were her fiancé, and was very tasteful; a single diamond mounted on a simple gold band. Her face was dominated by her dark, piercing eyes that at first appeared to be too large, but when they looked at you could only be described as beautiful. She had a small, pixie nose and full lips, painted red that seemed to move in slow motion as she spoke.
She cast a stunningly beautiful silhouette on the frosted glass door and then came in and intrigued me. Sitting with her long, tanned legs crossed and a cigarette glowing from between her lips, this is what she told me...
"I'm so pleased that you are here, Mr. Black,” she said in a timid, girlish voice with a slight trace of an accent. I couldn't quite place it but it was European, possibly Italian.
“You’re lucky that I am. I’ve been away a while.”
"I don't feel very lucky right now,” she said. "In fact, Mr. Black, I am in a terrible muddle, I really am."
She looked at me all the time she was talking, blushing slightly as I held her gaze.
"I’m sorry, Miss....”
"Claudia, my name is Claudia."
"Claudia. Why don't you take a drink and we'll see if I can help you."
I took out another glass and poured her a healthy shot of cognac, watching her curiously as she tentatively took hold of the tumbler and gulped the drink, before coughing embarrassedly. I chuckled and re-filled my own.
"Here, take this." I handed her my handkerchief and she held it to her mouth before smiling. The smile could have come right from the gods.
"I am sorry Mr. Black, what must you think of me? I really am in the most terrible mess. I'm absolutely at the end of my tether."
"Take your time sweetheart, there's no rush. When you're ready why don't you tell me all about it?"
"You’re very kind." She jabbed out a hand and rested it on my own. It was warm and felt soft, like a velvet glove on a block of firewood. She removed the hand and started fiddling in her dinky, black shoulder bag. She pulled out a small block of lipstick and a pair of black, lacy panties and handed them over to me.
"I've sensed that something is not right for quite a while now. I'm not some silly, paranoid little girl you understand, but when I found these it was just too much."
I smiled at Claudia and looked right into her big, puppy eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek, which she quickly dabbed away with my handkerchief.
"I take it that these are not yours," I said, businesslike.
She shook her head and said, "If only they were, Mr. Black, then I wouldn't be here now. No, I am afraid I don't wear this brand of lip stick and the...they are certainly not mine." She took a deep breath. "I found them in the trouser pocket of my dearest George. When I was doing the laundry of course, I wouldn't otherwise go through his things, although...” Her sentence petered out and she looked blankly out of the window with a confused look on her face.
"They could of course be a gift. Maybe you have a birthday or a special date in the not too distant future?"
Claudia shivered and shook her head. She picked up the lipstick and screwed off the top, the colour stick was worn nearly all the way down. She took the panties in her hand and made a fist. "They could not be for me, Mr. Black. They smell of...a woman."
"Your dearest George, is that your boyfriend, Claudia?"
She turned to me and smiled. "Not my boyfriend, Mr. Black, my fiancé. We are soon to be married and we will have the most wonderful ceremony with a huge reception and a marquee with bouquet after bouquet of sweet smelling flowers. So far he has been unable to afford a wedding ring. George does not yet earn very much money, but soon we will live in a big house and I will have a large, golden ring."
I nodded and waited for her to continue. She sat there for a good three minutes almost
enjoying the silence, as I was enjoying watching her in it. All of a sudden she flushed again and apologized before continuing the story.
"I don't really believe it is true, but she's been pestering me for weeks now and when I found these things I..." she paused, "well, I guess I just want to know really. George is very secretive. He never tells me things unless he thinks that it is necessary that I need to know. Now I think I really do need to know."
"Okay Miss..."
"Claudia."
"Claudia, I think I'm getting the picture. You want me to put a tail on George for a while, make sure he's behaving himself?"
She looked down at her hands and fiddled with her bag, before looking up eyes ablaze and nodded. "Yes, Mr. Black, I do. I will pay you handsomely for the task. This may not seem like a big deal to you but to me...you see George is my life. I cannot bear to think of him...well you do know what I mean, you are a man of the world. Just do whatever it is that you have to do, and then my mind will be at ease." She pulled a purse out of her bag and leafed out a one hundred dollar bill. I didn't even blink as she handed it over but the alarm bells were going off in my head. They were put to bed by a return of that seemingly innocent, angelic smile and a flutter of her long lashes.
"We reside together in a small house in the East Village."
She gave me the address and directions to get there. "Tomorrow evening George is out on a business meeting. Maybe that would be a good time to start the..."
