Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  I’ve got to get out of here, he thought. The planning Monk had drilled into them was completely forgotten as he hesitated. What do I do? Are they out there already? He shoved the gun into his pocket and spun from the doorway. He walked quickly—not too quickly, that’ll make you more obvious, Monk said—through the lobby. His car was parked a half a block away near a nice restaurant. That was one point that came back to him. “Our disguise is wealth,” Monk had said. “Always park the limo where real rich people would be. A nice hotel, a night club; something.”

  “Right,” thought Paul. E Smalls. The car was there, a safe haven. He suddenly felt like a kid again, playing hide the flag with the other kids. You sneak into their territory and had to get back to the safe zone. The car was the safe zone. He had to get to the car.

  And without anyone seeing him get in; that would blow it. As he walked, every doorway held a killer. Every shadow was a hit man lining up his sights. Paul E. had never been so frightened. He heard a tiny click from his left and dove to the floor in panic. A silenced gun fired and a bullet hole appeared where his head had been. Paul E. kept rolling as a potted plant exploded, throwing dirt into the air. He got to his feet without slowing and hit the glass door with his shoulder, escaping as it shattered.

  Run! The street was bright with lights from store windows and streetlights. It was almost daylight here. He had to get to the car. He couldn’t be seen. Two thoughts that seemed contradictory here in this too bright night.

  He heard footsteps and screaming and he sprinted to the first door he came to. A jewelry store, the door locked. He pulled the gun and fired; the lock shattered. He shoved his way in, ran through and out the back into the alley. From two doors down a man looked up, startled. He fumbled for a weapon and Paul E. shot him. The man went down with a sigh and Paul E. had an idea. He was carrying his clothes in a paper bag, as Monk had instructed. He looked at the theater door and thought, “why not?” It could work.

  Paul E. Smalls ran down the alley, passed the dead guy—part of him wanted to stop and stare—dashed into the back door of the theater. He stopped in the dark and dropped the gun. He shrugged out of his thin dark jacket, stripped off his pants and shoes and frantically dressed in the black suit. He buttoned the white shirt while slipping into loafers and clip on a tie. Mario had ridiculed Monk for this detail but Paul E. was praising him now. Tying a necktie would have been beyond his trembling fingers.

  He slithered into the suit coat and slid the gun into a pocket. He ran his fingers through his hair and breathed heavily. Mustn’t look panicked, he thought. Got to appear calm. He pulled on a hat; gentlemen wear hats.

  Now for the hard part. He walked carefully forward into the brightly lit lobby. This would work, he thought, or I’ll be dead in a second.

  The manager was huddled near the front entrance with a thin nasty looking guy. The manager was pointing through the broken door into the street. Neither man looked as Paul E. slid sideways and entered the men’s room. He paused to comb his hair and splash water on his face, stepped back out again, a patron of good standing. Paying no attention to the gunman he went back into the dark theater to watch Bedtime for Bonzo.

  *

  “This is getting out of hand,” gasped Paul E. Smalls from the settee. Cassidy had put pillows behind his head and was sitting next to him like a nurse. She handed him cigarettes and looked concerned and every few moments stared at Monk as if saying “what are we going to do?”

  Jefferson Davis had gotten back early; his jobs run smoothly, though the take was small. Mario was at table, frowning and picking at his fingernails with a switchblade knife. Monk paced through a cloud of smoke from his own chain-smoked Camels.

  Lou arrived in great humor. He was dressed in his formal escape clothes and looked a little like a balding penguin as he dumped two bags of cash on the table. He spread it around for all to see and stopped when no one spoke.

  “What?” he asked, scanning from face to face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Tell him,” Monk commanded and Paul E. sat up.

  He narrated the events of the evening as Lou’s expression shifted from success, to wonder, then to alarm.

  “They almost killed you,” Lou said. The idea was sobering, even for him. Guys with guns were serious—his abilities didn’t give him any advantage when they shot from a distance. He looked at Monk. “What does this mean to us?”

  “I don’t know. I should think about it. Clearly the pressure’s getting to them.”

  “Getting to me, too,” admitted Paul E.

  “Likewise,” said Jefferson, making his usual small contribution.

  Mario shrugged. “We knew it was gonna come to this. I don’t see a hell of a lot of difference. They’re gonna kill us no matter what.”

  “Maybe,” said Monk.

  “Ah, crap; maybe. We’re dead men. We were dead the minute we came back to Chicago.”

  “Why’d you come back?” Paul E. shouted.

  Tempers were rising as the idea of dying set in.

  Mario stared at him the way a lizard would look at a potential meal. “I came back,” he held up the switchblade. The knife blade flashed in the light from the chandelier. “To take some of these bastards with me.”

  “Jesus,” said Paul E. Smalls. Jefferson Davis stared at Mario as if he’d seen this sort of person too many times before. His expression was wary and pitying.

  Lou said, “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “Screw the plan,” said Mario. “Someone’s gonna die. And soon.”

  Chapter 37

  Inevitably the pressure will build

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. Let’s take a break, huh?” Monk studied the room, waiting for a response.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Lou.

  “Fine by me.” Jefferson.

  “Can I have some more champagne?” Paul E. Smalls asked Cassidy. They got up and shuffled around the room, tired and ready to leave but unwilling to be the first to go.

  “We’ll regroup here Monday morning at eleven,” said Monk.

  When everybody had gone, Lou and Cassidy stood alone in the ruins of the great room. Piles of money lay scattered in frosty green mounds. A pistol rested at a jaunty angle. Ashtrays overflowed, beer bottles lay like brown casualties on the table and the floor. Depressed, Cassidy began to clean them up. The clink of glass as they landed in the trash can was the only sound in the room. “Lou?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s almost over, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” He began to help clean up, as if that could make things better. Like an ordinary chore could hold the looming chaos at bay. Cassidy paused, the trash can she held out in front of her like a shield.

  “I’m going to miss this,” she said wistfully.

  “What?”

  Her smile was wan as she peered all around. “All this. The room, the money. The nice clothes and the dinners.”

  She let her eyes stop on him. “You.”

  Lou held her gaze. They stood apart by five feet of very expensive carpet. For Lou, it could have been a mile. “Me, huh? And last choice again.” He set down his bag and walked out of the room. The last thing Cassidy heard as she stood in the vast emptiness of the parlor suite was the click of the latch of the French door.

  She flinched when she heard it. It sounded like a gun.”

  *

  “Monk, you’ve got to come!”

  It was Sunday evening. Lou and Monk and Cassidy were dressing for dinner when a frenzied Paul E. Smalls crashed into the room with excited news.

  “Downstairs,” he said, “I can’t believe it. He’s gonna get us all killed!”

  “Who is?”

  “Jefferson. He’s downstairs in the bar. He’s playing guitar. Everybody’s watching him.”

  “He’s what?” Lou asked. He tightened his neck to get his top button buttoned.

  “Playing guitar,” Paul E. shouted. “And singing the blues.”

  “Oh, god.” Monk pulled on his dinner jacke
t, disguise complete. “He’s singing the blues. Let’s go get him.”

  They went down to the bar, fidgeting impatiently in the shiny gold elevator. Monk caught Lou admiring his reflection in the mirrors and sighed.

  “What? I look good.”

  They burst into the bar with their worst fears confirmed; Jefferson Davis standing center stage with a big brown electric guitar, leaning into the microphone singing a bluesy “Route Sixty-Six.”

  They waited by the entrance. “He’s very good,” said Lou, tapping his foot.

  Monk glared at him. “That’s not the point. We’re trying to stay undercover. I don’t think that standing in a spotlight with a giant electric guitar is especially subtle. We’ve got to get him off there.”

  “Best to wait until he’s done. That’ll be less noticeable.”

  “We’re a little late for less noticeable.”

  Cassidy joined them while Jefferson played a blues song. She was wearing a low-cut dress with a thin scarf. Her hair was pulled up and she had a single strand of pearls around her neck.

  “From the heist?” asked Monk.

  “One of Braddock’s, I think.” She watched the song for a while and asked, “What’s a mojo?” Lou ignored her and she sunk back a little, depressed. “I’ll go get us a table.”

  Jefferson finally stopped playing and the crowd finished applauding. He was putting his guitar carefully back into a battered case when Monk slipped up beside him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Playing the blues,” said Jefferson. “Figured you’d be here ‘for long.”

  “C’mon Jefferson,” Monk said. “Let’s talk about this. Join us for dinner.”

  “Can’t do that. Management notice a black man eating a lot more than one playing.”

  Monk knew he was right. Rules were changing regarding race, but hardly fast enough. A colored man could play at the Hilton, even stay at the Hilton, but they still wouldn’t allow him to eat dinner here. “Let’s go to the room,” Monk suggested.

  “Naw. You go have your supper. I’m done anyway.”

  “Jefferson; why are you doing this?” Monk realized they were making a scene just talking together. He hoped people would think he was with the band, a manager or something, or a booking agent. There were so few places where a colored man and a white one could interact.

  “I had the blues, man. Felt like singin’.”

  “How’d they let you up there?”

  Jefferson smiled, his white teeth shining brightly in contrast to his mood. “That was easy. Remember, I’m a guest here because I’m a performer. The band was happy to let me take a set since I so famous.” Again, they were struck with the contrast. A famous colored man was acceptable; an unknown colored man was not.

  “Jefferson, listen to me. They’re going to recognize you. Someone will rat us out.”

  “Naw, you said it yourself. Nobody expects us to be here. Even if somebody thinks it’s me, they ain’t gonna believe it.”

  “Yes, but...”

  “And even if they did recognize me, they’d never believe I be dumb enough to be front stage.”

  “Sure, but...”

  “You said so yourself.”

  Monk clenched his jaw to keep from screaming.

  “All that’s true, Jefferson. They probably won’t know you. But you don’t have to take a chance like this. You don’t have to push our luck.” He paused for thought. “It’s like you’ve got a death wish or something...”

  Jefferson Davis snapped the gold latches on the guitar case and picked it up. “Don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Wait,” Monk pleaded, but Jefferson Davis had walked away. “Lou; go talk to him. Try and find out his problem. He’ll listen to you.”

  “He will?”

  “Try.”

  Lou hustled away, through a dark door, down a dark hall, back into the lower intestines of the hotel. It was a different world here, far from the opulence presented to the world. Life, these stark halls said, to anyone listening, wasn’t all cake and champagne. There was cheap bread too, and booze, dirty cinderblock walls and trash.

  Jefferson was drinking whiskey next to the overflowing dumpster when Lou caught up with him. The black man sat on a crate on the loading dock, his guitar case beside him, watching the back alley, drinking from a hip flask. When he saw Lou, he said softly, “wondered if he’d come hisself or who he’d send. Have a seat.”

  Lou smiled, teeth white in the darkness, and set himself heavily on another box. The dock smelled of garbage and sweat, the view was blocked by the mammoth garbage bins and huge trucks all the way to a high wall that kept it all safely from view. No question, this was the bottom.

  “Sip?” offered Jefferson and Lou took the flask and tilted it. Liquid fire spilled down his throat and he growled, “What is that?”

  Jefferson laughed. “It’s a local brand. Pretty cheap, but tastes like shit. You get used to it after a while.”

  “It doesn’t make you sterile?” Lou felt as if he’d never breathe normally again. The stuff could sterilize a plague site. After a while he lit a smoke and offered one to Jefferson who was a ghostly shadow in the dim light. “Why are we down here?” he asked.

  “Dunno about you. I come down here ‘most every night.”

  “Why?”

  Jefferson shrugged, barely visible in the dark.

  “Why were you playing, Jefferson? Lou handed him back the bottle which was taken and sipped. “Talk to me, man. We’re in this together and that wasn’t a good thing you did.”

  “I guess.” They smoked in silence for a while. “I got nothin’ against you, Lou Fleener. You seem an all right guy. An’ that Monk’ he’s smart as the devil. Kinda like Cassidy, too; she’s a looker. She gots a thing for you, y’know.”

  Now Lou didn’t want to talk. He felt bitter about Cassidy, rejected, and for the first time in his life it mattered how someone saw him. Being second, never an issue before, galled him now. “There’s nothing there, between me and Cassidy.”

  “Don’t be a jack-ass. She’s a fine girl and if she sees something in you, you better believe it’s worth it. Don’t you go screwin’ it up.”

  “Great advice from someone playing lead guitar in a spot light while every gangster and half the local cops are looking for him. What were you thinking?”

  Jefferson was quiet for so long that Lou thought he’d lost him. There was only the slow breathing, the smoke of cigarettes and the tilting of the bottle passed between them. Finally, his voice soft and slow, Jefferson said, “Had me a niece a while back name of Diedra. Diedra Brown, my sister’s child. I was her uncle Jeff, the wild guy who came around now an’ again. Between gigs, between highs. I was into the weed a lot and didn’t come down very much, you get me?

  “Diedra was something special. She went to high school! First one in our whole damn family ever t’go that far. She was...”

  “Was?” Lou prompted. Another long silence followed.

  “I’d come in from a run of gigs around town. Been staying with the guys. Kingfish, sometimes, he plays the piano, maybe Ragman or Stubbs, we’d all crash after the work. Well, the gigs slowed down and I went home to see Carina, she my sister. I woke up round six, one day, had about the best supper a man could have and Diedra she was about to bust she was so happy I was there.

  “I bought her a present, too; remembered it was her birthday. Fifteen years old. A gold necklace, the kind for grown up women and though Carina made noise ‘bout it I could tell she was pleased, too. Well. Diedra, she put that ol’ necklace on and declared she wasn’t gonna take it off, never.

  “That night, maybe ‘bout eleven or so, I was sittin’ up when I ran out of smokes. Had a head on, what with the beer and the food so I was feeling a mite logy, and Diedra she says, “I go get you some, uncle Jeff,” in that way she had. Always thinkin’ about others. It weren’t but a block to Havens, a corner store that stays open all night and she wanted to do this, so I said, “Sure, babe; yo
u go on.”

  Another round of silence and Lou was feeling awful, imagining where this story was going to end.

  “She left and never come back. Somebody grabbed her and we never saw her alive again. They said she was raped and killed and the cops never did much to find the guys. Tha’s why I become a private eye, to find ‘em. And I did it, too. Turned out to be a couple of Rufus Black’s street muscle collecting on some protection. Went to Rufus and said I wanted those men and he said no. ’Caused a bit of bad blood between Rufus and me when I went ahead and killed them boys.”

  The scratch of a table match and the flair of the flame lit his face and Lou thought he saw the track of a tear sliding unnoticed down a black cheek. “They didn’t die, good, them boys. A knife makes for messy work.” After a deep inhale and a pale white cloud of smoke, Jefferson Davis said. “Uncle Jeff. Damn. The girl died account of me and my ways. She was going to go all the way, too. First one of us to go to high school.”

  “Lou Fleener, I don’t want to die. But I don’t care much ‘bout livin’ neither.”

  *

  Monday morning at eleven they gathered in the parlor, a subdued group. The men took places around the table. Cassidy had elected to stay in her room.

  “What now?” Lou asked the question on everyone’s mind.

  “Now,” Monk said, “we escalate.” He picked up a copy of the Tribune’s front section and read, “The rising level of mob violence plaguing our city has to stop. Several deaths have been reported and the police seem unable to stem the tide. We call upon the Mayor to appoint a special unit to hunt down and capture those most responsible.”

  “Events are coming to a head. We have to increase the pressure for just a short time and we can win.”

  “How? They’re getting too close.” Paul E. Smalls seemed to be the spokesman for them all. Jefferson sat unmoving as a sphinx, next to Mario, who looked as bored and mean as a Gila Monster.

  “That’s the point,” said Monk. “It’s part of the plan. See how the paper said, “several deaths”? Those aren’t us.”