Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  “I am not,” Monk demanded, sounding like an old lady. Lou snorted. They both lit cigarettes and continued watching the front of the restaurant.

  “Seriously,” Monk said. “How many can you handle? I can maybe take one of them...”

  Lou was surprised enough to snort. “You can? Since when?”

  “You don’t think I can handle myself?”

  “I do not.” Lou plucked a stubby .38 from a baggy pocket.

  “What’s that for?”

  “For you. To back me up. In case there are too many people for me to handle.”

  “Okay.” Monk took the gun. “Good plan.”

  He turned the gun this way and that letting it glint menacingly in the bright sunlight. Traffic was sparse and there were few people on the streets but Lou said flatly, “you might want to not flash that thing around the public, though.”

  “Oops.” Monk hastily tucked the gun away. “Lou? You ever get nervous about this stuff.”

  “Not really.” He smiled, a happy troll. “I’ve been doing this for too long. Besides, this ought to be fun. Haven’t you ever wanted to kick over a beehive? Just to see what would happen?”

  “No. I know what would happen—we’d get stung by a lot of bees. Oh, God. Do you think that’s what going to happen now? Are they going to, you know, kill us?”

  “Probably. It’s what they do. But I think if we move fast, and get out faster, they won’t know who to sting.” He swatted a fat mosquito. “You ready? ‘Cause we’re gonna bleed to death here if we don’t go in.”

  Monk breathed deeply. “Sure. Yes. Okay.”

  “We can back out, you know. We don’t have to do this.”

  Monk thought of Amanda/Corrie. “No; I’m ready. Let’s do it.” A large man got out of a black Packard and walked to the restaurant door. He was too big to be anything but hired muscle.

  “That’s what we want,” Lou said. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the road and pushed open the door to Spaglio’s. A bell rang above the door and a waiter with a white apron appeared.

  “Here to see Tony Scolio,” Lou said.

  “There ain’t no...”

  “Yes, there is. Don’t get cute. We aren’t here for any trouble.” They pushed past and walked to where a curtain separated the front from the kitchen. In the back were several booths and a long bar. The room was empty except for three very large men in Gym shirts, flexing their muscles.

  Lou said, “Looking for Scolio.”

  “No such animal,” said a guy who resembled a phone booth with biceps. His voice was high pitched like a little kid. Lou started to laugh.

  “What’s funny?” The guy turned red and stepped forward. Used to bullying people he saw no danger in Lou Fleener, who promptly stepped forward and kicked him in the shin. The guy screeched like a macaw and clutched his leg. Lou raised a pitcher of beer and threw it at the others before they could move. Drenched and surprised they blinked like confused oxen.

  Lou said, “We don’t want trouble. Just want to talk to your boss.”

  Two began slithering and sliding out of the tight booth, like a fat woman out of a girdle while Lou, amused, watched them. Monk stood near the front door, frozen and waiting. Lou hoped he hadn’t forgotten the gun.

  Finally, the muscle squeezed out and lumbered toward the bar. Lou said, “Monk,” and continued smiling.

  Monk, paused for a moment in confusion until, like a light coming on said, “Oh, right! The gun.” He tugged at his jacket pocket—he was wearing a wool jacket despite the heat—and pulled out the .38.

  “Hey!” he said. The musclemen continued their advance.

  “Say it louder,” Lou suggested, nearly out of sight behind the mass of bodies.

  “Hey!” bellowed Monk.

  “Louder,” demanded Lou. They were almost on top of him. He could smell pizza sauce and anchovies; and really awful aftershave. “Shoot the damn gun,” he yelled.

  Monk pulled the trigger, the gun jumped and the sound shattered the room. A ceiling light fixture exploded. The musclemen spun around in a herd, staring open mouthed. Lou laughed out loud.

  He pushed between massive backs and wandered casually over to Monk. “Nice,” he said. “You killed a lamp. Took you long enough, though.”

  “That’s what I was aiming at.” Monk was holding the gun so it was a menace to no one, and everyone.

  “Good shooting.” Lou laughed again, a merry sound. He was feeling particularly pleased. “So, guys. Anybody know where Tony Scolio is?”

  They were agitated now, baffled, muscles made useless by the gun. It had their attention but wouldn’t hold it long.

  “Anyone?” Lou repeated. “No?”

  Monk stage whispered, “I think we’d better leave.”

  “But we haven’t found out anything.”

  “Trust me. This is that thinking part.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He nodded to the muscle. “See you guys.” They backed out of the room and ran to the front door.

  “I’ll drive,” Lou said, grabbing the door handle.

  Monk flipped over the keys and the car jumped away from the curb with a screech of whitewalls. “Thanks,” he said. “For the gun thing.”

  “Yeah, no problem.” Monk’s face was flushed with excitement. He reached out to snap on the radio, waiting for the tubes to heat. He pushed a thick white button and the indicator slid across the green band, settling on WGN. Jack Brickhouse, his voice unmistakable, immediately filled the cab, talking up the Cubs and their victory over Cincinnati.

  “What now?”

  “How about his house” Monk answered.

  Lou was impressed. “Do we know where it is?”

  “Nope, but I’m sure they’ll lead us there. Go around the block.”

  “Right,” Lou said, getting it. Follow the muscle—another great idea. Tony’s Scolio’s house was a brick Tudor that squatted on its lot like an ivy-covered toad. It sat back from the road by seventy feet of manicured lawn that even in the heat of August was emerald green. This could be the house of a business tycoon or a doctor or an alderman. No one would expect it to be the residence of a mobster.

  They parked in the shade of a weeping willow and watched the musclemen go up to the front door.

  “Shall we wait or go on in?” Monk asked.

  “Go in.” Lou watched closely as the muscle stopped at the door, spoke with someone and entered. “Got the gun?” Monk patted his pocket. They hustled across the lawn, leaving deep footprints in the damp grass. The smell was rich and musty, filling their noses like bread dough or alcohol, deep and earthy. They reached the door, pounded and Lou shoved it open hard when it began to move, knocking over a middle-aged guy in a black suit. Monk clubbed him with the butt of the gun and they swept down a wood paneled hall toward the back of the house.

  Loud voices guided them down a short dark hall until they burst into a sun-drenched patio room. The light was so bright it hurt the eyes and they blinked to adjust.

  Two of the muscles were there, looking like particularly stupid cattle, mouths open, arms pointing. Next to them was an Edward G. Robinson type, fully dressed in a blue pin stripe suit with a buttoned vest and a red tie. He had a large cigar in his mouth and he gaped like a flounder. He held a cut-glass decanter in one hand and a chiseled glass in the other.

  “That’s him!” one of the muscle managed to say.

  Monk stopped at the door as planned, keeping the gun out in case a lamp got rowdy. Lou kept moving fast and closed in on the startled men before they could react. From his rear pocket, he pulled out the picture of Amanda Braddock and shoved it Scolio’s face.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, hoping to keep them off balance. Speed was everything. If he let up they’d do what they did best. He and Monk would be dead in seconds.

  Scolio’s eyes moved from Lou to the picture. His body was thick with middle age and overindulgence but he radiated power like the sun radiated heat. The effect was potent. Clearly this was someone of greater
experience than any of the lower level thugs they’d met so far.

  His face relaxed, settled into fleshy jowls and he paused to puff his cigar back into flame. He gestured with the decanter for the bodyguards to stay back and shifted his gaze up to Lou’s face.

  “I don’t know,” he said softly. Lou felt nervous at his reaction. He could feel the authority in the room. It was in the way Scolio reacted to the shock. From chaos to control just by force of will. Clearly, he had no thought of letting Lou get the better of him in his own place.

  “Who is she?” he asked. His eyes seldom moved.

  “Where is she?” Lou countered.

  “I don’t know,” Scolio repeated. “Who are you?”

  “I’m looking for the girl.” The tension increased, as if screws were turning. It vibrated in the bright sunlight as dust motes floated silently between them. The musclemen were beginning to mill but Scolio kept them at bay with a single gesture. They stayed back, unsure.

  “Who is she?” he asked again. His voice was polished wood, strong and old sounding, containing warmth and steel and a sense of coiled menace, as if they’d annoyed a snake.

  Lou held his stare to maintain equality and said, “Her name’s Amanda Braddock.”

  His gaze faltered at the name and his eyes returned to the picture. There was no recognition there at all. With a sinking feeling Lou realized that he had no part of her kidnaping. So now what were they supposed to do?

  A stand-off. Lou and Scolio, Monk and the muscle. One flinch and the powder keg would be sparked and Lou knew he’d have to fight and the results might not be what he expected. He’d never met someone like this. The muscle was just muscle, but Scolio was something else altogether, a threat of much greater magnitude.

  “You don’t know,” Lou said. Scolio’s eyes came back up. His thick body in the expensive suit was immobile, but coiled like spring. Lou felt himself being measured and he cursed his physique, the lack of height and girth that didn’t at all project who he was. A soft guy, his body stated, and no matter how much he wanted, it didn’t send any menacing signals. That lack of posture was going to get them killed as Scolio decided he wasn’t a threat.

  Scolio moved his hand to place the decanter on a glass table and he said, “Take him, boys.”

  Damn. Lou’s methods in fighting were simple; use anything as a weapon, always do the unexpected and do it fast. He grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a tall brass floor lamp.

  The shade fell off and he shoved the bare bulb into a guy’s face. It popped and the jagged glass sliced skin. Lou spun the pole so the base was in front. He jammed it into the stomach of the second guy and kept the momentum until he could twist and hit the first guy in the jaw. He went down and Lou slammed the base of the lamp on the second guy’s foot like a postal clerk stamping a package. The guy bent and Lou threw an uppercut that sent him crashing onto a glass patio table, flat on his back.

  Lou tossed the lamp through one of the thick glass windows. Glass flew out and hot summer heat came in.

  Scolio stood to the left, eyes wide. “Who are you?” he asked, clearly surprised at how someone who looked like Lou Fleener had done so much damage—so fast—to the hulks he hired.

  “Like I’m gonna tell you.” He picked up Amanda’s picture from the floor and shook away broken glass. Monk smiled serenely from the doorway, the unused .38 out of sight behind his back.

  “You’re dead men.” Scolio said, the way some men order a sandwich or pick out shoes. Despite the heat, Lou shivered. He paused at the door to watch Scolio standing in the ruins of his room, staring impotently.

  “See ya.” Lou waved and sped after Monk down the dark corridor and out.

  Several blocks away. Lou said, “Did you see the look on his face?”

  “Like he’d kill us himself.” Monk agreed. “If he knew who we were.”

  With a satisfied smile, Monk ground the gears into second and the Mercury took them on a very roundabout trip to Lou’s apartment.

  Chapter 10

  Can’t say the day was wasted

  The windows were open, the faded curtains fluttered weakly and the heat sat on them like thick pillows. Lou drooped at the kitchen table in a tee-shirt, suspenders draped over his pants. Monk, at the gritty enamel sink had just dunked his head in tepid water and was now fanning himself to stay cool.

  “What did we accomplish back there?”

  “We really pissed off a major mob guy,” Lou suggested. “Can’t say the day was wasted.”

  Monk considered this sourly. “He’ll want to kill us, you know.”

  “But he doesn’t know who we are.”

  “So, we’re counting on our anonymity.”

  Lou had to think that over. Anonymity, was that the same as being unknown? He considered the context before hesitantly agreeing. “He doesn’t know where to find us either.”

  “Sine qua non,” Monk said and Lou looked at him dubiously.

  “Goes without saying,” said Monk, saying it. “If he doesn’t know who we are, he can’t know where we are. Got it?”

  “Ah.” Lou fingered his shirt lying across the chair, fumbling for cigarettes. He came up empty. “You got any smokes?”

  “I’m out.” Monk dunked his head again and came up sputtering like a walrus. Water splashed across the counter and down onto the worn linoleum floor, dripping on faded roses. “Don’t you have some in the other room?”

  “Yeah, but I’m too hot to get them.”

  “Scolio didn’t take the girl, Lou.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Lou sighed. “And the smokes are all the way over there. What a world. You wouldn’t go...?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “What do we do now?” The heat was unbearable.

  Lou fanned himself with the sports section. And the Sox were still two out.

  “Same as before. Go see the next guy. Mess with him and see if he reacts to the picture of Amanda. Rely on our anonymity to get away with annoying these guys.”

  Lou was still considering the cigarette problem.

  How to get from over here to over there without moving. Hmmm. “So, who’s the next guy?”

  “Guzman Cermak.”

  “Right. He’s downtown.” Lou had an idea. “You want a beer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. Me too. While you’re up why don’t you get the smokes?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.” Resigned, Lou got up and went to the living room. He walked past the open front window, grabbed the pack of Pall Malls and checked. Only two left; they were going out no matter what. He turned back to the kitchen and paused at movement below on the street.

  Something inside him reacted. He turned to the window, showed himself to the street and dove to the floor. A burst of gunfire shattered the glass, tearing through the flimsy walls and exploding the night. Cheek to floor he heard shouts and car doors and the squeal of tires. The neighbors began to chatter like disturbed monkeys, leaning from windows and stoops, demanding and fearful.

  Lou crawled to the window and peered over the edge. The street was empty. He got to his feet and went to the kitchen. Monk was face down on the vinyl, his face pressed tightly against a wet and faded lily.

  “You ok?”

  Monk stirred, did a push up and climbed to his feet.

  “Yeah. Freaked out though. What was that?”

  “That,” Lou informed him, “was the sound of our anonymity getting the hell shot out of it.”

  “We should get out of here.”

  “Uh-huh.” They ran through the rooms, grabbing a few clothes, a razor, the .38 and Lou’s hat, and raced down the stairs, stopping at the front hall. “What if they’re still there?”

  “I’ll go first.” Lou cocked the gun. The click was loud in the dark hallway. He stepped back, crouched and said, “Now.”

  Monk yanked open the door, Lou threw himself forward face first, landed on the pavement and rolled. There was no one. From above was the stirring of neighbors
peering out windows, but no one was willing to chance the street.

  “C’mon.” Without waiting Lou sprinted low across the street to the Mercury, threw open the door and dove in. Monk followed and the huge car bellowed smoke as it jerked out into the street, heading south.

  “What happened?” asked Monk sounding like the neighbors. He was sitting cockeyed in the seat looking back down the dark street. No cars followed. “Were those Scolio’s guys? How could they have found us?”

  “Couldn’t have been.” Lou concentrated on shifting and the Mercury charged through a yellow light. The streets were dark and empty, except for their headlights bobbing around. The shocks were well worn and they bounced with every pothole.

  “It couldn’t have been, “Lou repeated. “There’s no way they could have known where I live. They don’t know who I am.”

  “Well somebody just tried to kill you.” Monk slumped back into the seat and glanced at Lou. “You screwing anybody’s wife?”

  “No!” Lou declared with vehemence. “Nobody. Not right now.” They cut left at Kedzie. He shook his head. Donna? Lorraine? “Can’t be them.”

  “Well, whatever. But I think that, until we get clear of this mob thing, we better stay at my place.”

  They drove several blocks without talking. Lou lit the last cigarette and turned south toward the highway.

  Smoke filled the car, replacing the silence as they wondered who was trying to kill them.

  *

  The sofa was lumpy; the blanket was wool. It itched and Lou was too hot until it slipped to the floor, then he shivered in his boxers until he woke enough to pull it back up. By morning he hated Monk sufficiently to kill him himself.

  Hearing him in the kitchen, smelling bacon and eggs, hearing the percolator bubbling and the aroma of fresh coffee, Lou plotted. Finally, he put on pants, slipped suspenders over a wrinkled undershirt and stumbled into the kitchen.

  “Coffee?”

  Monk had a Camel smoldering in an ashtray on the counter next to the food. Ketchup ran red over yellow eggs. Bread burned in the toaster. “We’ve got to speed this up.” He shoveled bacon and eggs on a plate, set the plate on the table. “You want toast?”

  “Sure.”