by Simon Swift
"How about The Portly Gangster?" I said.
"The Portly Gangster, sounds like..."
"Yeah, I know what it sounds like," I said, cutting him off with a serious tone in my voice, "but it's all I got to go on."
Harry shook his head and smiled a wry smile. "Sorry, Errol Black. I never even heard the name before and I have heard a lot of names. I'm not saying there is no Coward or Portly Gangster but in this job you hear lots of things, lots of names and lots of baloney. I'm afraid I never heard of anything like this."
I nodded. "Okay Harry, thanks again for the upgrade, you are a true gentleman. Goodnight."
"Yeah, goodnight," he said and almost closed the door. Before he did he stopped again, paused noticeably as if he was evaluating something in his head and finally he turned around.
I stepped closer and he whispered in my ear.
A minute later, he had gone and I was running a hot bath. It had been a long day and I was exhausted. A nice, long, hot soak would revitalize my body and make me sleep a good deal better. I looked around the vast array of toiletries on the white marble shelf, selected a bottle of honey and lemon bath salts and squirted it all under the powerful tap.
Whilst the bath was filling up I considered who could have trashed my hotel room and why. There were few people that knew I had made the journey and I was pretty sure I had not been tailed here from New York. That made it likely that it was someone that had been expecting me and so someone who was connected to The Coward. But that theory made little sense as I had so far fulfilled my bargain with The Coward and would be ready to meet him tomorrow night. Also, there appeared to have been nothing taken from the room so just what was the reason behind it? I was sure it would become evident in the days ahead so for the time being forgot about it.
As I lay back in the boiling hot water with my eyes closed, feeling my body shed its fatigue and relax, my mind was again wandering. I had just lost one friend in Dyke Spanner and now I was worrying that soon I would be losing another. Whichever way I turned it around there was no acceptable reason for Hermeez to be mixed up with Muchado. He must have owed him money. That was the only reason that added up, Muchado was a loan shark by trade after all. It would make the most sense that he had come looking for Hermeez for payment. But why had Hermeez needed to borrow money from a low life like Muchado, when he knew only too well that he could always come to me? We may have been hard up but there was always ways, better ways than going to low lifes like Muchado.
I turned the tap off and ran my fingers through my hair, feeling my cheeks flush in the boiling hot steam. There was a gentle drip drip drip as the steam hit the mirrored ceiling and condensed, dripping back down into the bubble filled tub.
Maybe Hermeez had not borrowed money from Muchado, maybe he had hired him to do another job? This was the thought that had been eating away at me for the last few days and one that I was frightened of believing. It was well known that Arnold Muchado was not just an ordinary loan shark, despicable trade though that was. He was much more flexible and could be hired for a number of jobs whether it be to frighten, to give a good beating or if the rumours be true, to kill.
I emptied my mind of the thought as I stood up in the bath tub and wrapped a big, fluffy towel around myself. I felt a little light headed with the steam and heat in the room so I swilled my face a couple of times with cold water and padded out into the suite. Fixing myself a drink, I toweled myself dry before heading through to the master bedroom, clicked on the bedside lamp and got under the covers.
Sleep came quickly but was fitful and full of vague dreams, all of which featured the mysterious, beautiful Marlow. Like most people when I wake and sleep has ended, I find it hard to remember dreams, particularly if they are really special, and this day was no different. I can't recall the detail but that was unimportant. At that time what was also unimportant was the fact that Marlow had surely duped me. In what way I was not quite sure, whether she had purposely lured me to The Dragon Bar that fateful night for whatever reason, or simply that she had failed to tell me that only a few nights before she had been sharing the bed of Dyke Spanner, my one time friend and partner. Or maybe something else that I yet had absolutely no idea about. Whatever the truth was I was certain that she had played me all along and probably cared little for me, but I was still determined to find her alive. And I would.
After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, tomatoes and fried bread, followed by grapefruit and swilled down with three cups of coffee, I was ready to hit the muddy streets of Woodstock. It would prove to be back breaking and disheartening work, although I had very little to go on and could very well be barking up the wrong tree altogether.
I primed Harry for a few tips on who would be the best points of call for information gathering but found him less than forthcoming. It's not that he didn't want to help, he was just a little wary of any reprisals and when I refused to tell him what it pertained to he clammed up. My persistence paid off a little and he gave me the names of a few people around town that may be able to help but did not repeat the advice he had given me last night.
They didn't. Help that is.
I started at the constable’s office in the Town Hall, at first on the precept that I was following up the break in at the hotel before going on to mention the names Coward, Daniels and The Portly Gangster. As I had been told by Harry to expect I got no joy and was asked to leave several times before I was physically escorted from the tatty, one floor, and wooden premises.
Doing the rounds of the Woodstock bars certainly took its toll and even though I devised several different ways of steering an aimless conversation around to the questions I wanted answering I never got a satisfactory one. At times I got the impression I was purposely being stonewalled, although in hindsight that was probably my own suspicion of this whole business and the sheer indifference of the people that I was questioning.
Local businesses fared no better. I found myself repeating the bizarre names over and over again, sometimes being laughed at and sometimes insulted. Very rarely did I get the impression that anyone was hiding anything and even on the odd occasion that I did, I was quickly shown the exit, with a note in my notebook my only real sign of progress.
I thought of what Harry had whispered in my ear just before he left the Catskills Suite and the effect it had appeared to have on him this morning. He was scared, of that there was no doubt, and I decided it would not be wise to start throwing the Tighe name into the many conversations I was having. I already knew a little about the Tighes, enough to know that they were not the sort of people you wanted to get on the wrong side of and I had to think of Harry. He only mentioned them because he couldn't come up with anything else, and now he wished he hadn't.
Chapter Eleven – Stanley Cortene
It was mid afternoon and I was sitting on a barstool in what looked like the sleaziest joint in the district. It was the only bar I could find that wasn't full of cowboys. I'm a liberal kind of guy; homosexuals, drug dealers no problem. As long as they don't bother me I won't bother them. But country yokel music, and bars full of putzs in tight jeans and boots with spurs on them, shouting, "Yee Haa!” That's where I draw the line.
So here I was in a bar that was much closer to home. It was a typical watering hole of the underclass; full of undesirables and layabouts. A fight would break out every half an hour, usually settled outside on the pavement. The barmaid had a black eye and a tattoo on her upper chest. She was chewing gum and wolf-whistling every incoming male customer. I would just drink my drink and mind my own business.
There was a short, stocky guy with thick clumps of black curly hair, sitting about three paces away. He had a bulge above his shoulder, making it obvious to guys like me that he was concealing a shotgun. He had Outfit written all over him. You could almost smell it. A big, heavily built guy with a shaven head was standing next to him, clearly his minder. They were wearing scruffy corduroys and tartan, woolen shirts with chequered flat caps on their heads. And they
both spoke in harsh, Irish accents.
I asked the bartender to bring over the telephone, keeping my eyes on the guy with the shotgun. I dialed Jake's number and waited. Meanwhile the two guys were laughing and joking about something. They kept pointing across the room and then cracking up in hysterics.
"Jakey, it's Errol. How's things going?"
"Errol, thank god you called. Not good I'm afraid. You're gonna have to get you ass back to Manhattan pretty damn quick. I don't know what it is your chasing out there in the sticks, but everything's at stake over here, you hear me?"
"Calm down and tell me what's bothering you, will you Jake. I can't just drop everything and leave. I've got important business over here."
I noticed the two guys across the room calm down a hell of a lot and nudge each other as the door opened and in walked another man. He was tall business-like, wearing an all black suit. He casually looked around him and went and sat at the far end of the room. I knew that guy but I couldn't quite place him.
"Errol, are you listening to me?"
"Yeah, Jake, go on."
"It's that damn Lieutenant Beech. He swears he’s got a witness to say that you were seen entering the Dragon Bar minutes before Dyke Spanner was blown away. That you were holding a smoking gun and that you wouldn't let anyone get close until you had made sure he was dead. Now I know this all sounds a bit like a fairy story, and I'm not quite sure just exactly how much of it holds up, but unless you can come up with something I've got my work cut out."
"What witness, Jake?"
"I don't know that, he won't put his cards on the table, but he sounds serious."
"So what’s the story, I went into the Dragon and for no reason at all I cold-bloodedly murdered a close friend, a man I have known for most of my adult life."
"He wasn't a friend of yours and you know it. So do the police for that matter."
"Come on Jake, it's preposterous. There is no witness, don't you see and if there is no witness it'd be laughed out of court. In fact it wouldn't even get to court"
"Not if they pin a motive on you."
"You're going to bring up the Hermeez thing again, I just know it. Look maybe he had a motive but he wouldn't be that stupid and I certainly wouldn't be that stupid."
"Forget Hermeez. Let's say that maybe it was revenge, but for something else, nothing to do with bloody Hermeez."
I sighed, losing patience but still said, "Go on."
"Let's say that a couple of weeks ago a very dear friend of yours was killed in the same joint, by the very same Dyke Spanner. You maybe didn't go out to kill him, but let's face it you already had a thousand good reasons to do so. Maybe you went to talk and things got out of hand."
"Are you saying Dyke killed Woo Wang?"
"No. No I'm not saying anybody killed anybody, right. That's not my business. All I'm trying to do is tell you what is going on and to take this thing bloody seriously because the police are not messing about."
"What do you think though Jake? Do you think I did it?"
"Come on Errol, don't get snippy with me. I know you didn't do it, and even if you did I'd do my best to get you off, but you gotta help me. You gotta get back here and tell me what the hell is going on! You leaving town so soon doesn't help at all either. The police don't know yet but as soon as they find out that you broke that court order that's another weapon in their armoury."
"I told you, Jakey, I can't come back yet. Hell I pay you good fuckin' money to keep me out of jail. It looks like you're going to have to earn some for a change. Look I'm going to have to go..."
There was movement in the bar. The two guys in question had polished off their drinks and were heading determinedly across the room.
"Errol, don't you hang up on me, we've gotta talk!"
"Listen, Jake, talk to Weeny about it. He'll tell you exactly what happened. Just sort it out, I got to go."
"But Weeny's..."
I hung up and edged across the bar so I was a little closer to the action. I wasn't sure exactly what was going down, but it looked pretty heavy.
Shotgun sat down next to the guy in black. Muscles ordered drinks at the bar and joined them. All three men kept their hands on the table; a mob gesture of friendship. As soon as those hands moved there would be trouble.
I edged a little closer so to be within earshot and kept my head tucked down.
"Something's going down, and you know it," said the man in black down his nose, "I want you guarantee that it's got nothing to do with your boys."
Shotgun looked hurt. He was short, maybe five six, but his hundred-seventy pound frame was formidable. Big broad shoulders stretched his brown hunter's jacket tight. He had thick, black curly hair with bushy eyebrows and a scar on his left temple. Muscles next to him was a real monster; as big as a garage and a double one at that.
"She's gone again," Shotgun said to his goon with a smirk, "Which is terrible news, I'm sure." He then turned his gaze to the man across, "But what it has to do with me, I am not sure."
"You don't appear to be taking this very seriously," said the man in black with a scowl, "In fact you..."
Shotgun opened his palms. "Stanley, I give you my most sincere condolences. If I could do anything to help you, I would not hesitate. You know that is the truth, but..." he shook his head, "... what can I do?"
It was then that I realized who the man in black was. Stan Cortene was a legend in his own lifetime. He started out as a bagman in the '20s. Couriering dirty laundry for the East Combination - wire money, narcotics, booze; word was it didn't matter. He had a family early in life - nice wife, three little kiddies - and he would do anything for them. For years he was a reliable man; trustworthy and honest. The job would get done quickly and quietly.
Either the cops had nothing on him or they left him alone. Some said he bought them with his own money. It was a matter of honour - he was being paid to do a job and therefore it was his responsibility to see it done. Whatever the method he got the job done every time.
This impressed the boys in the East. A reliable bagman was a great asset and Charlie Lucky rewarded Cortene by offering him more. Soon he was Hammer for the whole New York City area, and was just as adept at this new profession. For years he served as the hit man before setting up his own outfit. He was now such a darling with the big boys, Luciani and Lansky that they left him alone. Of course he still helped them out when required and they in turn gave him his freedom.
He now ran a thriving mob north of the City. I'd heard he often still did jobs personally - most capos settled into respectability once they became the boss. It fooled them into believing they were legitimate businessmen despite the blood being still wet on their hands from getting there. And here he was talking business alone.
I took a guess the other two were from the Tighe organization; an Irish Protestant gang of racist thugs. Anyone who wasn't white, preferably from Belfast, fiercely anti-Catholic and married with twelve children was deemed suspicious. It helped if they drank ten pints of Guinness a night, looked like a hard up garbage collector and went home to beat the wife. They used to be big in this area, but they never really recovered from losing half their employees a few years back in a siege. The last few years had seen a shaky truce between the two mobs. Maybe today it was shakier than most.
Shotgun took out a silver box from his lapel pocket, opened it and offered a cigar to Cortene. Still looking angry, Cortene took one with a fat, hairy paw covered in gold and lit it up. I ordered another drink and listened.
"Listen to me Stan," began Shotgun, "I appreciate you coming here alone. You are welcome on my patch, anytime. All your boys are, you know that." He emphasized 'my patch' through gritted teeth. "But I know nothing of your problem, and that is the truth."
"That is all I wanted to hear," replied Cortene, looking out of place with the long, thin cigarillo in his hand. "Thank you for the bourbon." He stubbed it out and stood up.
"Just one thing," said Shotgun. "There's a new man in town. Shady c
haracter with big money, lots of influence but little ambition, so I hear. Call me."
Cortene nodded and headed for the door. He didn't quite get there however, before it was knocked from its hinges. The room went silent and everyone turned to see three heavily armed gorillas where the door had been. In the middle of them stood Dan Washington, the meanest, dirtiest cop in the East. He was holding a gun in each hand; both were nickel plated, one with a five inch barrel the other six. A grin filled his black face like a white scar.
Dan Washington made Ness's Untouchables look squeamish. He was a bad dude, respected and feared by good guys and bad guys alike. Nobody knew how many people he had killed, and nobody dared ask. Word has it Charlie Lucky offered him a King's ransom to switch sides, desperate to have a man like Washington on the payroll. In return big Dan killed a man for every grand he was offered. Lucky was getting nervous himself before they deported him back to Sicily.
Dan was a tall, handsome man. For a smoke he had a light complexion with a gentle nose and blue, alert eyes. His mouth sat under a thick, black moustache, which was twirled at the ends like a French chef. As dapper as ever he was wearing a well fitting brown suit, black tie and a red handkerchief ruffled in his breast pocket.
We'd met a couple of times but I don't think Dan recognized me. Stan Cortene was not so lucky; he was shepherded back to the table with Shotgun. There were so many pairs of hands in the air it looked like someone had asked for Spartacus. Dan just stood there, soaking it all up. And then the fun really began.
Shotgun lived up to his name, pulling out his weapon and cocking it in one fluid action. This triggered the melee as the room descended into chaos. Billiard balls sprouted wings and began flying; bottles and beer glasses did likewise. The first few blasts of gunfire came from Dan Washington and his boys, narrowly beating Shotgun and Muscles to the tape. That's not to say they didn't fire off a few shots in anger; quite a few punters had that pleasure. Although not all of them had the best part of their face blown off in return. That's what big Dan did to the gangsters.
