Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  “So?”

  “So, it means the mobs are killing their own people. Do you realize the pressure they must be under? The only way they can survive is by not being noticed. People will put up with a lot if it’s what they expect. And they expect some corruption.” He waved the newspaper like a fan. “Sure, they’re against it. You ask anyone and they’ll say, “we want the criminals locked up.” But they really mean they want the ones they notice locked up. You get some big-name killer, like Starkweather in Nebraska, or some other lunatic, something new, and they demand justice. The only way the mob gets by is by keeping a tight lid on things.

  “And we’re blowing that lid right off. The public sees the body count. They see the headlines and the news reports and they think “this has got to stop.” Trust me; the gangs can’t go on much longer.”

  “Hell. Neither can we,” Mario said.

  “Just a little bit more,” Monk pleaded, “that’s all we need.” He looked to Paul E. Smalls. “What about it? Just another couple of days.”

  “I don’t know.” Paul E. stared at his hands.

  “Jefferson? A couple of days?”

  “Sure. Got nothin’ else to do.” He smiled quickly, there and gone, and Monk wondered about that. Lou had been uncharacteristically quiet when he came back, refusing to discuss what he’d learned. That alone surprised Monk.

  “Mario?”

  “Screw it. I’m in.”

  “Well said. Lou?”

  Lou startled, like a kid asked a question in school.

  “Huh? Oh, sure. Let’s do it.”

  Monk nodded at the table. “All right. One last round.”

  Chapter 38

  Now we make it worse

  Jefferson Davis Jr. huddled in the shadows of a doorway at the west corner of Dayton and Clive. At 12:30 on Saturday night the moon was a pale sliver in the dark sky, the temperature was seventy and the wind was a non-starter. He was dressed all in black and kept his hand in his jacket pocket, lightly tracing his fingers across the raised metal of the Smith and Wesson thirty- eight.

  If the information Lou had brought back was correct he would need it very soon.

  The building behind him was abandoned and scheduled for demolition. The windows were boarded to block trespassers and covered with obscene graffiti. He heard them coming from separate directions.

  Two men, slightly built, wearing dark clothing just like his, paused near the former entrance of the First Central Bank and Trust, glanced furtively both ways and moved toward each other. They both carried paper bags under their arms and guns somewhere on their bodies.

  They didn’t waste time on greetings, just stood stiffly for a moment, then passed the bags.

  “Stop right there.” Jefferson couldn’t believe he was doing this. When Monk explained that they had to be alone because they were hitting several places at once, he hadn’t realized—not really—that it meant stepping out of the darkness with a gun in his hand.

  He stepped out of the darkness with a gun in his hand. “Don’t nobody move.” He was pleased that his voice didn’t shake.

  It was odd, how calm he felt. Maybe they were right, his old platoon sergeants, when they said it was like riding a bicycle; you never forgot how. The last time he’d pulled a gun in the night was against the Nazis in France, but this felt just the same.

  “The hell?” They began to step apart and Jefferson pushed the gun toward them. Light from a street lamp glinted off the barrel.

  “Nobody needs to die tonight,” he said quietly. “Less you go for a gun.”

  “Man, are you crazy?” asked the guy on the left. He had a ball cap pulled low and shiny rings glinted on his fingers. “Do you know who we are?”

  “Couple of guys on a corner, I figure,” said Jefferson, “who’s gonna give me them bags.”

  “I mean, who we’re from?” said the other. His pants were black and he had a baseball cap pulled low over his head.

  “I know who you’re from,” said Jefferson. “And I know what’s in the bags. So just set them down on the ground and walk away.”

  “But,” tan pants said, “You can’t do this.”

  “Listen to him, boy. You don’t want to do this.”

  “I ain’t your boy.” Jefferson clicked back the hammer on the gun. It made a loud sound in the night. A mosquito buzzed by his ear and he flicked his hand to brush it away. “Just put the bags down and walk away. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  Black pants laughed. “We’ll do it, man. We’re not gonna die for this. But you do this you’re a dead man.”

  “That’s right,” said Jefferson. “I’m a dead man. You tell that to your boss.”

  Paul E. Smalls had the night’s easiest job, taking down a numbers runner on the south side. Rufus Black’s turf. But the very idea made Paul E. nervous.

  He sat in his Fairlane with the motor idling, a rough purr with an occasional misfire to add a throaty sound. Paul E. loved this car. He’d never had a new car before this, always driving a series of old heaps. Buicks and Studebakers and once an old Rambler. To keep his mind from really connecting to why he was sitting here on a muggy August night, Paul E. was listing his old cars and counting what he liked about them and what he hated.

  The Rambler, that was the worst. Pea green Ambassador with broken springs that always stuck his ass. The Buick wasn’t bad, a ‘54 Roadmaster, baby blue with vinyl seats and the Studie, with that ridiculous bullet nose, like it didn’t know if it was coming or going. But it had a wide backseat and he remembered one night with Peggie—what was her name? —Masterson? Stewart? He shook his head to clear it. Didn’t matter, the point was that she had joined him back there with an enthusiasm and agility he still found impressive.

  A guy came from around the corner, shoulders hunched, head down. Under one arm he carried a canvas pouch like the businesses used to take their receipts to the bank. That was his man. Paul E. knew the bag contained the take from this week’s numbers game, all in cash, all right there.

  He waited until the guy was next to the car and he called out, “Hey! You, c’mere.”

  The guy jumped half a foot and jerked his head to see where the sound had come from. He was a middle aged colored man, balding under a Sox ball cap. He walked with a limp and Paul E. had a momentary flush of regret. The guy was probably lame and given the job as a gift. The bosses weren’t going to take it well, his losing the receipts.

  But it couldn’t be helped. Paul E. let himself remember his flight from this guy’s people and his mind hardened. “Hey,” he said again. “C’mere.”

  The man had slowed but wasn’t about to stop for a white man at two in the morning. The momentary pause was enough. Paul E. held up his service pistol to the window, making it easy to see. The runner edged over to the Fairlane.

  “Gimme the bag,” demanded Paul E.

  Eyes wide, the guy shook his head so hard his features seemed to blur. His eyes were wide as saucers. Paul E. knew he’d never even considered this happening. He had the safest job in the entire damn city—who’d take down a Rufus Black runner on the south side?

  Why, Paul E. Smalls, of course. Paul E. grinned at the idea. Now that the moment had actually arrived he was feeling a sort of elation. Payback he supposed, for being rousted last month.

  “Gimme the bag,” he insisted and brandished the gun. The guy stepped closer and stopped, like a mule, determined and afraid.

  “No,” he said. “Please mister, don’t take this. This is a...” he looked around and whispered as if sharing a secret, “... a mob thing.”

  “Jeez, I know that. That’s why I’m doing it. Now gimme the bag.”

  The runner licked his lips and glanced around for help. The street was empty and quiet. A faint breeze played with a paper cup on the sidewalk.

  “I’m gonna shoot,” said Paul E.

  “I can’t give you the bag, mister,” the guy pleaded. “They’ll kill me.”

  “I’ll kill you. I’m gonna count to three...”
r />   “Aw, man; you don’t have to count. There ain’t no reason to count.”

  “Two.”

  “What do you gotta be countin’ for?”

  Paul E. clicked back the hammer. “Three.”

  “No, wait. Here.” The runner thrust the bag forward.

  Paul E. took it and said pleasantly, “Thanks.” He pulled back into the car and shifted it into drive.

  “They gonna kill you too, man, they find you,” the runner said.

  “I know that.”

  As he pulled away he looked in the mirror. The guy was standing in the middle of the empty sidewalk, just a vague shape in the night, shaking his head at the ways of the world.”

  *

  Lou Fleener glanced at his watch for the ninth time in ten minutes.

  “It’s 12:15. Jeez,” said Cassidy from the driver’s seat. She wanted to light a cigarette. She wanted to go to the bathroom. She didn’t want to be here in this car.

  The car was Lou’s battered Buick and it was parked in the dark shadows of an alley behind Hartman’s Jewelry store west of Pulaski, near Lincoln. Cermak’s old territory. There was no one in charge right now with the boss dead, and Lou intended to take advantage of that fact.

  He patted Cassidy on the shoulder—she flinched she was so nervous—and he smiled at her. “It’ll be ok. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  “Right, yeah, sure,” Cassidy agreed absently. This was like the biggest case of butterflies ever, the worst stage fright, the scariest thing she’d ever even thought of doing all rolled into one. And she wasn’t even alone yet. She groaned silently, wondering how she’d gotten into this mess.

  As if sensing this Lou said, “Think about the money.”

  Right. “The money,” Cassidy whispered. “The money the money the money...”

  Lou yanked the door handle and she almost screeched. “Take it easy, huh?” he said.

  “The money, the money, the money...”

  He got out of the car, the springs floating, and walked away down the alley. She watched him, a short balding man in a loose white shirt—he said it let him move more easily—walk toward a room full of gangsters.

  He paused at a battered old door in the middle of the block, looked back and he made a thumbs up gesture. He flexed his shoulders and opened the door.

  An anti-climax; no one was there. He exhaled, stepped into the room and peered around. He was in a stockroom. Metal shelves, floor to ceiling, held cardboard boxes with arcane symbols scrawled in black marker. He heard voices from another room.

  Lou stepped to the next door, gently turned the handle and looked through the crack. There they were, a group of five men sitting around a folding table. Cards and pocket change and poker chips covered the tabletop, cigarette smoke polluted the air and empty beer cans littered the floor. Loud lewd comments and laughter filled the room. Lou nodded and smiled; this was the right place. He pushed the door and walked in.

  “Hey, guys,” he said cheerfully. He held a pistol in his right hand. “Anybody know how the Sox did today?”

  They turned to face him, like cattle. Big mean cattle. Surprise was evident in the blank stares and open mouths. A can fell to the floor with a faint clanking noise.

  “You want to all go stand over there?” Lou asked politely. He gestured to the far wall with the gun. “Please?” The men slowly stood up from the table and moved to the wall like men in a line up.

  “You’ve done this before,” Lou said, “I can tell.”

  “Who are you, mister?” A little guy asked. He had a cigarette hanging from one lip and an expression like a rat. “Do you know who we are?”

  “You’re the south side social club,” said Lou. “Having your afternoon tea.”

  “Funny,” said one guy. They milled awkwardly in place, glaring at the gun that held them. “What do you want?”

  “I want the contents of the safe,” said Lou.

  “You’re kidding, right? You can’t really be robbing us. Do you—?”

  “Yeah, I do know who you are. You’re Gus Cermak’s boys and you’re here guarding a very large collection of jewels from an estate in Milwaukee. They were stolen last week and they’re leaving this morning on a truck to California. So, yes; I know who you are.”

  “They’ll kill you if you do this.”

  “Everybody’s got to die sometime.”

  “You’ll do it sooner.” Despite the threat of the gun, they were beginning to consider attacking. All of them knew what would happen to them if they reported that a single man with a gun had hijacked them. They began to move apart and forward.

  “Don’t make me shoot you,” said Lou.

  “You can’t shoot us all.”

  “Yes, but who will I shoot?” That stopped them for a moment and Lou added, “One of you want to open the safe?”

  No one spoke.

  “No?” said Lou. “No one?” He sighed. “Well, I really don’t want to shoot you, and the noise would be a problem, so I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way. He un-cocked the gun and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Come on guys. Come at me. One at a time or in a bunch, it doesn’t matter.”

  For a second they stood confused, until the rat face guy yelled, “get him!” and four guys charged. Rat face of course stayed behind. Lou grabbed the wooden chip holder like a bowling ball—two fingers and a thumb—and swung it in a fierce arc. The first guy dropped. The next two circled the table to reach him and Lou let them get within range before leaping across the card table. It collapsed with his weight, chips scattered and Lou rolled, coming up head first into the crotch of thug number two who fell gasping to the floor.

  The two thugs untangled themselves and came at him. One slipped on the chips and fell to his knees and Lou kicked him in the face—three down—and faced the next one like a matador, back straight, arms angled slightly to one side. The thug charged and Lou had a moment to sigh—they were so predictable—and stepped aside. The thug hit the wall head first with a deep rich clang, knocking himself unconscious.

  “Now will you open the safe?” Lou said to rat face.

  “Sure. It’s this way.”

  They went through another door, entering a small but elegant showroom. Glass cases lined the walls and the center of the room, glistened in the dim light. Rat face led him to a small office at one side, gestured to the glass door and said, “It’s locked.”

  Lou took out the gun and smashed the glass. “It’s open now.”

  They stepped over the debris and rat face knelt before a black safe hidden behind a pair of brown wooden file cabinets. He turned a dial, twisted the handle and opened the door. Inside was a small leather case like a country doctor might use. Without a word rat face handed it up to Lou.

  “What else is in there?”

  “Aw, man. You don’t want anything else, huh?”

  “Maybe I do. Hand, it up.” Rat face turned back and pawed inside the safe. He handed back a couple of thick stacks of cash, still in the bank wrappers. Lou saw a hundred on the top and whistled. He took the money, said quick thanks; and turned away but paused, thinking. Monk had said to be inventive.

  “Don’t just stick with the obvious,” he’d said. “Look around for anything we might use. We’re not going to get a lot of chances at these guys, you know.”

  So, he said to rat face. “One more time. Anything else in there?”

  “You can’t do this.” Rat face seemed to huddle resignedly in on himself. He was like a man caught between an immediate threat and a later one. “I know who you are. I’ll tell them. They’ll kill you.”

  “Just hand me whatever’s in there.” Lou was beginning to worry about the time. Cassidy must be going out of her mind.

  Rat face reached in the safe and pulled out a ledger type book. He got up and faced Lou. “I heard about you. You’re Lou Fleener. The private eye.” He stared as if seeing a ghost. “They’re looking everywhere for you, man. They’re gonna kill you bad when they catch you.”

&nb
sp; “I figured,” said Lou. Time was getting on here, he had to leave. “So, this,” he gestured with the bag, “doesn’t matter a whole lot, does it?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I’m going now.” The bag was tucked under his arm. Lou turned to leave, saw a reflection from the glass of a case, ducked and felt the heavy lamp whistle over his head. Without pausing he spun and planted his right fist into rat face’s chest, feeling ribs break. The little thug fell backwards against the safe, slipped to the floor, gasping for air.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Lou.

  “They’re gonna kill me if I let you go.” The man grimaced and hugged his ribs. “They’re gonna kill me.” His voice rose, into a panicked wail.

  Sighing, Lou picked up the lamp rat face had tried to brain him with. He hefted it and swung rapidly. The bulb broke on the thug’s skull and he collapsed unconscious. “Merry Christmas,” said Lou. “Now maybe they won’t.”

  He went back through the broken door, and through the rear room still littered with moaning thugs and walked out the back. He heard the Buick’s engine roar and saw the headlights come on. When it reached him, he climbed in the front passenger seat.

  Cassidy, eyes wide, saw his rumpled shirt and scolded. “Had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?” She gunned the engine and they fled the alley.

  Mario Caputo jittered in the alley like a heroin addict needing a fix. “What am I doing?” he asked himself again. “The hell am I doing?”

  He gulped in huge gasps of air and answered himself, “I’m robbing Tony Scolio.” It sounded like a sob.

  “Quiet,” said Monk, a shadow in a nearby shadow. “They’ll hear us.”

  “They’re going to hear us in a minute anyway,” hissed Mario. “What am I doing?”

  “Calm down,” said Monk. “It’s like you never robbed a crime lord before.”

  Mario snorted in surprise. “Put that way, what do I got to be nervous about?”

  “Right.” They waited quietly for a while before Mario mused. “That Cassidy, she’s some dish, huh? I’d like to have some of what she’s cookin’.”