Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  Mario, a middle-aged Lothario, sipped from a five cent Pepsi. He stuffed half a dog into his mouth, shoving it down with two fingers. Lou grimaced and was happy that Cassidy had left.

  “You want in?” asked Lou, hoping, please God, have him say no.

  “Sure.”

  “Swell.” Lou and Cassidy had driven down from the city, nearly to Gary, Indiana before turning west to this godforsaken rural intersection. Somehow Monk had found a phone number to reach a guy who could find Caputo and get him to call back. Caputo, though a disgusting person, had a well enough developed sense of self-preservation to insist on a spot where he could see somebody coming from miles away.

  He made Lou pay for the dogs, leered at Cassidy until she was ready to kill or flee—she chose flight which might have saved Mario’s life—and now was making disgusting digestive noises.

  “Whoa,” he pounded on his chest. “That tasted better going down than coming up. Let’s get going.”

  Lou would rather face Cermak again than Cassidy when he brought Mario back to the car and motioned to her to open the doors. She pulled the lock, Mario jerked the handle and said, “Me and toots here’ll sit in the back,” and Cassidy slammed the door again and relocked it.

  “She’s got a sense a humor that one,” Mario said around the finger jammed in his mouth. “I guess I’ll just get in the back.”

  Resigned to a very long trip, Lou got behind the wheel. He tried to avoid Cassidy’s glare all the way back to Chicago.

  Chapter 31

  I suppose you’re all wondering?

  “I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you all here?” Monk had always wanted to say that. He paced in front of the fireplace, cold now in Chicago’s heat wave, and looked at his team. Mario Caputo, the greasy jazzed up guy, was sitting at the table picking his teeth with a knife, Jefferson Davis, the colored musician, eyeing the baby grand piano in the parlor and Paul E. Smalls, elegant by comparison to the others, seated erect in the high back chair by the door.

  Lou and Cassidy were sitting close to each other on the settee. For a moment Monk wondered at that but lost his train of thought when Mario Caputo asked, “what do we do first?”

  “It’s my understanding that you and Mr. Smalls visited Guzman Cermak’s place.”

  “Yeah. They didn’t like that a lot.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. I want you to go back and see them again.”

  That got Paul E.’s attention. “No. It won’t happen. Uh-uh.” He shook his head as if the words weren’t enough. “They’ll kill us.”

  “Possibly. But I don’t think so,” Monk said. “I think they’ll tell us lots of things we need to know.”

  Jefferson Davis watched silently. Monk had already noticed that he remained quiet in a room full of white folks.

  Monk said to him, “Mr. Davis, I’d like you to see Rufus Black.”

  “Can’t do it. He’d cut me before I said a word.”

  “How about if you go with Lou?” Jefferson looked at the settee and Lou smiled amiably.

  “Him? How’d he be any good?”

  “He’s better than he looks,” Monk said. “And Rufus Black likes him.”

  “We watched a Sox game together,” Lou said.

  Jefferson looked unconvinced. “He does like his baseball. All right. We’ll go, but I don’t think we be comin’ back.”

  “Trust me,” Lou said. “Rufus is like a brother to me.”

  *

  “Kill them both,” Rufus said. “And dump the bodies.”

  Lou sat down as if he hadn’t heard. Jefferson stood by, looking nervous.

  They were back in Rufus Black’s box, along the first base line. Chicago was playing the Yankees in what was expected to be a close game. New York was out five and the Sox needed two to take the lead in the division.

  “Wait till the game’s over, huh?” Lou had brought a hot dog and beer with him. He swallowed half of the former, getting mustard on his shirt. “Twenty bucks says Aparicio hits out.” The shortstop was just coming up to bat.

  “You crazy? Man’s gonna get a double. He’s batting like .300.”

  “So, he goes out, you kill us later, how’s that sound?”

  Rufus roared with laughter, an ominous sound from a three-hundred-pound killer. “You one crazy white man.” He looked at Jefferson who was trying to be invisible. “What’s with the

  nigger?”

  “I ain’t your nigger, Rufus,” Jefferson said firmly.

  Both Lou and Rufus looked at him, surprised.

  “I came to tell you something; to make you a big man.”

  “I am a big man,” Rufus said.

  “A bigger one. And I ain’t talkin’ pounds, neither.”

  Rufus’ reply was drowned out by the crack of a bat.

  All eyes turned toward the game. Louis Aparicio had hit a hard drive to center and was racing toward first as if his legs were on fire. The fielder grabbed the ball, hopped for balance and threw him out. The crowd groaned and sat back down.

  “Good,” Lou said amiably. “You’ll kill us later.”

  *

  Mario Caputo didn’t like the guy. But he didn’t really like anybody, so he didn’t let it show. He was meeting Buddy Fitzgerald at a bar on 26th Ave, down the block from Milwaukee where Guzman Cermak was reputed to have killed three men. Of course, there were a lot of corners in Chicago where Cermak had supposedly killed people. The man had that kind of reputation.

  But now he was dead and guys like this Buddy Fitzgerald idiot were trying to take over his business. “I got a proposition for you.”

  “I heard you had a run in with Gus.” Caputo loved it when second level thugs talked like they were on equal terms with the bosses. They only did it, he noticed, when the bosses were away. Or dead.

  “I had one,” he said, “but it’s as dead as he is.”

  “Maybe,” said Fitzgerald. “Maybe not.”

  “Listen to what I have to say and then decide.”

  Fitzgerald considered this and shrugged. “Always time to kill you later,” he agreed.

  *

  Paul E. Smalls had thought he’d never face a mobster again and he was wondering why he was doing it now. He could be back at the circus where it was safe, not waiting for Maynard

  Wazinski to come out of the john. He was sitting in a booth at a mid-block bar favored by Wazinski, another up and comer trying for the number one spot vacated by Gus Cermak. Three large men with guns hovered nearby to make sure Paul E. waited. Disgusting noises emerged from the restroom. I could be running the Ferris wheel, he thought, a lifetime ambition. Course, if what Monk said was true, he could end up owning a Ferris wheel. That was a comforting thought.Maynard Wazinski came back in tucking his shirt into his pants. His fly was still open and he paused at the table to zip it. Class, thought Paul E. Real damn class. Half Polack, half cracker, all stupid, this guy’s a contender for sure.“So, what do you want?” Maynard’s voice was low and southern. He spoke like he had a mouthful of corn pone. Paul E. was amazed that anyone could take this guy seriously. “I’ve got a proposition that’ll make you the top man for sure. You interested?”Maynard paused as if thinking and Paul E. inwardly sighed. The man was a joke. Like he wouldn’t do anything to be boss. This meeting was decided years ago when Maynard first decided he could be somebody.

  After enough time had passed to grow a full beard, Maynard said, “Let’s have it.”Chapter 32

  We steal from the rich

  Comparing notes back at the Hilton, at a table covered with beer bottles, whiskey shots and ashtrays. Monk smiled. They had everything they needed and he felt a bit giddy at the idea. Up until now he had led only Cassidy and Lou and they been doing small things like break-ins and forgery. Errands, really. But now he had enlisted an army and had specific tasks for them to do. Success or failure, life and death. The idea was making him horny.

  To distract himself he picked up the notes he’d been taking. “They bought it,” he said, unnecessarily.
Everyone at the table was flush with satisfaction. Hadn’t they entered the lion’s den and walked back out? They all felt as if a death sentence had been—at least temporarily—postponed.

  Monk and Lou’s lodging at the Hilton hadn’t escaped their notice. It added a cachet to what they heard, an element of believability. Cassidy, just by being there and beautiful also made them feel like Monk and Lou could pull this off. A rich place, a pretty girl...good clothes...Monk had already flashed a large roll of cash. They were all convinced.

  And now that they’d done what he said and hadn’t been killed, they were eager to hear more.

  The Cermak wannabes hadn’t been a problem, Mario and Paul E. had them by their own greed. But Rufus Black, though he had decided he liked Lou, had wanted badly to kill Jefferson Davis. He was a traitor, Rufus demanded, to his race and to the mob. He had to die. Lou had argued and finally prevailed and Jefferson Davis could live. For a while.

  Back at the Hilton, they all looked to Monk with renewed respect. “You all convinced the mobsters that we could help them,” said Monk. “Now, we betray that trust.”

  *

  Mario Caputo, using information from Rufus Black, entered a small shop on the South side. The storekeeper, surprised to see a white man, and such a mean looking one at that, tried to pretend he was busy. Mario moved quickly up the narrow aisles to the register.

  “Hey, boy,” he said loudly though the man was nearly sixty. He shoved a blue steel pistol at his face. “Open the safe.”

  “I got no safe, boss.” He went on moving things around the counter, trying to ignore the gun.

  “The safe in the back,” Mario demanded.

  “Got no safe.”

  Mario hit him with the pistol, slashing downward at his face. Blood poured out and the man cringed with pain, but stood stiffly erect. “Don’t know what you think you’re doin’, but you better think again. This is a mob place.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Sambo. Open the goddamn safe.”

  Shaking his head at the ways of the stupid, the storekeeper led him to the back and reluctantly opened a small safe. He stepped back and Mario cleaned it out.

  “Hey, boy! Over here.”

  “Yassuh.” Jefferson Davis had learned long ago that a white man wouldn’t even see you if you just kept your head down and your voice meek. This particular white man was the evening manager at Ollie’s Ribs, a local restaurant on the west side. At eleven-thirty on a Friday night the place was just beginning to jump. A juke box was playing some pretty good swing music and the staff were running to keep up with the orders.

  “Wipe down tables six and seven. Move, boy!”

  The manager was a hard case, always yelling at whoever he could. The waitresses hated him, the bus boys, of which Jefferson was one for only his second shift, hated him, and the bartender made obscene gestures whenever he wasn’t watching.

  “Yassuh,” Jefferson said again. He was going to enjoy this one. He went to the table, cleared it into a rolling tray and shuffled slowly back to the kitchen. He knew that moving too fast would make him noticeable. Coming back from the kitchen he turned left and headed for the manager’s office.

  It was locked of course, but Jefferson had learned his trade well. A simple door couldn’t keep him out for long. His slender fingers caressed the metal and he was through. He considered how close the two professions were; thief and private eye. One stole things, the other stole information. And now they were the same.

  He went to a cabinet and flipped straight through to the back. A file named, “Crump Enterprises” was what he was after—and here it was. Good. He took it and closed the cabinet, and went through the desk looking for a key to the safe. Not finding one he sat down and waited.

  A little after twelve the manager came in. He saw Jefferson sitting at his chair and his cheeks began to swell with outrage.

  Jefferson held up a gun. “Don’t even start.” He got up and shoved the manager roughly into the seat. “I want the key.”

  “What key?”

  “I’ll shoot your white ass you don’t give me the key.”

  “What key?”

  Jefferson raised the gun.

  “Oh, the key. Sure. Got it right here.” The manager pulled a thin chain and dragged a key from under his shirt. He handed it to Jefferson who went directly to a picture on the wall—Washington Crossing the Delaware, a copy, but not bad—and took it down. Behind it was a small black metal door with a keyhole. He opened it and pulled out several stacks of cash.

  “Lot more money here than up front brings,” he commented. He felt good. This was the first time the manager had ever shut up and Jefferson liked him better that way.

  But the man couldn’t keep it in. “They’re gonna kill you, you dumb...”

  “Don’t say it,” Jefferson warned. “I’m really tired of hearing your abuse. Might shoot you just for that.” Mercifully the man subsided, though he continued to glare.

  Jefferson shoved the money into a brown paper bag and left. As soon as he was out of the room the manager jumped up and ran to follow. The room was too crowded to go out the front so he raced to the back. He leaped through the door expecting to see his former bus boy but when he swept the alley there was no one, just an idling black limo.

  As he watched, goggle eyed, it pulled silently away from the wall and drove away like a great black shark.

  For Lou and Cassidy, after a long week of odd errands, this night seemed like a festival. They were going to “knock over” as Cassidy delighted in saying, a gambling joint. They sat in the back seat of the big yellow taxi, heads together as conspirators, whispering eagerly at each other like high school teens on a first date. The cab driver was disgusted.

  “Get a room, you two,” he yelled once, but that only increased the giggling. The cabbie drove on, scowling.

  Even twenty-five years after prohibition and speakeasies, Chicago maintained a thriving underground if you knew where to look. Thanks to information from Tony Scolio, Lou and Cassidy knew exactly where. In this case it was 860 north Halstead Street, a three-story brownstone that sat flush against the sidewalk: Deep red painted door up one stoop, knock twice and ask for Angelo.

  Lou was dressed in medium fashion purchased from a Robert Hall discount tailor chain and Cassidy, in an off the rack dress, looked like the type that frequented an illegal gambling place at midnight. They knocked and gave the right password and were escorted into a small but luxurious casino. Three blackjack tables, a couple of poker tables, a long bar and even craps. The room reeked of stale smoke and desperate entertainment and urgent fun. Drinks were free and cash was everywhere.

  Cassidy had never imagined such a place. “Can we play a couple of hands?”

  “No. Get a hold of yourself.” Lou, though, was sorely tempted. When had he last played poker? Back in Korea it was, and he remembered losing big.

  “Aw, c’mon, Lou. It’ll be fun.”

  “Well...” They shoved their way through a thicket of humanity, all sweating despite the many fans that swirled the air, and settled at a craps table. A croupier scooped the dice to Cassidy and yelled, “New shooter!” and a barmaid pushed glasses at them. At the end of an hour they had made nearly twelve hundred dollars and Lou was shooting.

  “Hey, it’s time to get going,” Cassidy yelled in his ear. Since their winning streak the table had become the center of attention. People were shoving to the rail, throwing money and screeching when the dice stayed hot.

  “One more,” said Lou. He cupped the dice and blew on them. “Seven come eleven,” he yelled, because he’d heard someone say it. He threw and the dice rolled out a four and a three. Everybody screamed in joy and Lou casually took out a gun. He aimed it at the ceiling and fired.

  The explosion deafened the room and silence slammed down hard.

  “This is a stick up!” Lou said and smiled with pure joy.”

  *

  Paul E. Smalls didn’t want anything but anonymity. He wore his fedora low over his
face like a mask. Just a guy in the crowd; that would be nice. A face without a name, a shadow...

  “Hey! What’s your name, sir?” demanded the comedian. Paul E. had been walking past and mistakenly gotten too close to the stage show. The comedian, who specialized in audience participation, pounced.

  A spotlight hit them and he squinted, dreams of obscurity gone. The crowd, seated at small dark tables, leaned forward to watch, secretly delighted that this wasn’t them out there.

  The nightclub was, “The Thousand Oaks.” It straddled the border of Evanston and Skokie and had been recently written up by the Sun Times as “Pure entertainment! Buddy Hackbarth will slay you!”

  It was owned by Duke Braddock.

  Paul E. tried to pull away but the performer had a grip on his arm. “What’s your name?” The comic tugged and leered to the audience, urging them to yell and laugh. Paul E. felt sick.

  “Lemme go.” He tried jerking but the man held fast.

  “A bashful one,” cried the comedian. “Hey; what’s a shy voyeur?” He waited a second. “He peeps through the window but keeps his eyes closed!” A drummer did a rim shot, the crowd groaned and Paul E. wrenched futilely.

  “Let go!” He insisted.

  But the comedian was on a roll; he loved it when they resisted. “Cat got your tongue? Did you hear the one about the cat who swallowed a canary? He thought it tasted ‘tweet! Get it? Tweet? I’m telling you, I’m on a roll now.”

  “I’m warning you...”

  “Warning me? Hey; are you a lawyer? You’ll love this! Whadda you call fifty lawyers buried up to their necks? A good start!” Rim shot, laughter, more futile tugging. Paul E. cringed; what if someone saw him? He pulled his hat lower.

  “Hey, why are lawyers like enemas? ‘Cause, you hate them until you need one, then you still hate them! How many lawyers does it take to make a sandwich?”

  Someone in the crowd yelled “How many?” and Buddy yelled back, “depends on how thin you slice them!”

  “Gimme...”