AHMM, October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "This is a farce.” The lawyer looked at Osprey. “Lieutenant, I want to swear out a complaint against this man and the three thugs who work for him."

  "What's the squeal, no regard for the king's English?"

  "I believe they murdered my client."

  * * * *

  "It's still Thursday,” Canal said. “Who had it in the pool?"

  "Nobody, that's who.” Burke stroked his wire-brush stubble.

  "Let's roll it over on what day we all draw I-A."

  "Thursday.” Zagreb, Burke, and McReary spoke together.

  "No sweat,” Burke added. “They'll have to bust us out of stir to get us into basic."

  "Eddie bit the linoleum about seven,” Zagreb said. “We all met in Springer's chambers at seven thirty. Who was where when?"

  "After we finished tying one on at Sportree's, I caught up with my dame and left her place at seven,” Burke said, “but I'd sure hate to see her have to say it for the record."

  "On account of your wife?” McReary said.

  "On account of her husband."

  Canal bit the end off a cigar and spat it into a cuspidor at the end of the oaken bench. They were waiting outside the commissioner's office. “Hell, Burksie, you don't need to worry about prison. Somebody'll shoot you long before then."

  "Canal?” Zagreb looked at him.

  "When I can't sleep I go to the Pussycat Theater on Telegraph. Grindhouse: stag films twenty-four hours a day."

  McReary shook his head. “I'm serious. You and Burke have got to go to the circus once in a while."

  "Ringling don't give free passes to cops,” Canal said.

  Zagreb asked him what was playing.

  "Search me. I was out like the Lindy Hop as soon as the lights came down. I told you I go there when I can't sleep."

  "Mac?"

  "I went straight home."

  "Anybody see you?"

  "My mother."

  "An unimpeachable witness, I don't think. Well, I'm no better off. I went back to my place and nodded off counting roaches."

  The commissioner's secretary called them in. John Witherspoon was a small man in a big job, with Harold Lloyd spectacles and the kind of face that made lemons pucker. He asked the squad the same questions Zagreb had asked, but didn't appear to hear the answers. He had a file open on a desk the size of a Murphy bed.

  "In his complaint, Winston Sweet said Karpalov told him you men made statements of a threatening nature."

  "Balls,” Burke said.

  "Eloquent, Detective, but hardly satisfying.” He pursed his lips at Zagreb. “Did you tell your prisoner that if he tried to come back on the Queen Mary you'd give that information to the Germans?"

  "That was a rib. My butcher's the only German I know, and he's a Jew."

  "Beside the point. I'm not accusing you of high treason.” His face registered regret for that omission. “Detective Burke. Did you tell the prisoner he should be marched down a hall and shot in the back?"

  "That's what the Russkies do, I said. It was a joke, Commish."

  "Sergeant Canal. Did you brandish your revolver and make a remark about DOA within the prisoner's hearing?"

  "Jeez. Who knew the little snake had such big ears?"

  "I'll take that as an affirmative."

  "I was just kidding around."

  "You men were on an assignment, not the Colgate Comedy Hour. What about you, Detective Third Grade?"

  McReary sat up straight. “I never said a word to the prisoner."

  "Why not? Everyone else had a turn. Were you afraid your words might come back to incriminate you?"

  Zagreb scraped back his chair. “If that's all you got, can we get back on the job? Letting killers run loose is sloppy police work, even when it's Eddie the Karp on the slab."

  "Keep your seat, Lieutenant. I didn't say that's all I've got.” Witherspoon turned the page. “All the slugs fired in the drugstore were .38s. Ballistics tested your guns, all .38s. The results were inconclusive."

  "Zero for four's low,” Zagreb said. “They better not try moonlighting at Briggs Stadium."

  "The bullet they dug out of the wall was misshapen. The three the medical examiner got from the corpse were in fragments. Comparing the striations was impossible."

  Canal said, “Durn-dums. Frankie Orr's practically got the patent."

  "Lieutenant Osprey's bringing him in for questioning. Three of your weapons have been eliminated; dust had accumulated in the barrels since their last cleaning. The fourth was in bandbox condition. Ordinarily I commend taking care of one's revolver. In your case, McReary, this morning's session with the rag could mean a life sentence in Jackson."

  McReary paled. “I clean and oil it regular."

  "That's no baloney. The kid takes care of his piece like it was a dame.” Burke was bristling.

  The commissioner slapped shut the folder. “All your alibis stink. The squad's suspended until all the facts are in. With pay, it pains me to add. Karpalov belongs to Homicide."

  "Sweeter words were never spoken,” Zagreb said. “What about our guns?"

  "Impounded, and give me your shields. That should keep you heroes off the streets until the police clean up your mess."

  The four rose and flipped the leather wallets containing their gold badges onto the desk. Witherspoon opened the belly drawer, scooped them inside like a poker player gathering in his winnings, and slammed the drawer shut.

  Down on the street, Canal stopped chewing his cigar and set fire to it. “Well, we ain't in combat boots."

  "Stripes neither,” Zagreb said. “Just a bunch of guys on a busman's holiday."

  McReary's eyes went round. “You mean we're investigating?"

  "Ox can't find his fly, much less a triggerman. Jackson's no place for us. We're the reason the warden made quota."

  "I don't know, L.T.,” Burke said. “I'm naked without my piece."

  "No one wants to see that.” Zagreb put his hand in the side pocket of Burke's coat, got his keys, and popped the trunk of the Chrysler parked at the curb. Inside were two pump shotguns, a Thompson submachine gun with three drum magazines, a box of smoke bombs, and assorted blackjacks and brass knuckles. “Careless of Witherspoon to overlook these,” he said. “He was a better bean counter before he came down with a bad case of politics."

  Canal grinned around his stogie and bent to scoop up the Thompson. The lieutenant slapped his hand. “Let's try it a cappella for now. That heroes’ crack upstairs got my goat."

  "So he got your goat.” Canal rubbed his hand. “You want Frankie to get the rest?"

  "Let's give him a couple of hours with Osprey. Even a cheap hood needs a laugh now and then. It won't take more than a breadstick to bend a twig like Winston Sweet."

  They didn't have access to the file, but out-of-town lawyers weren't hard to find in Detroit. Sooner or later they got wind of the attorney-friendly staff in the bar of the Book-Cadillac Hotel, where the Recorders Court crowd flocked to drop their briefs after a hard day of litigating. At sight of the Four Horsemen entering the cool dim interior shoulder-to-shoulder, half a dozen bailbondsmen drained their glasses and left by the side door. The counselor from Cleveland shared a leatherette booth with a public defender Burke knew well enough to remove by his collar and propel toward the exit with a boot from behind. Zagreb shoved himself in beside Sweet and the others crammed themselves in opposite.

  "What is the meaning of this?” The fat little man righted his glass, tall and misty with a gardenia floating in it.

  Burke waggled his fingers at Canal. “He said it. Pay up."

  Canal got a five-spot out of a fat wallet shaped like a banana and slapped it into Burke's palm. “I had him down for I beg your pardon.’”

  "Naw. That's doctors. With lawyers it's always questions."

  The lieutenant stuck two fingers in Sweet's drink and tasted them. “Gimlet.” He wiped his fingers off on the man's wide lapel. “Too late in the season. Who's your client?"

  "Bartender! Th
ese men are annoying me."

  The short, athletic-looking man in the green suede vest gathering empty glasses off tables nodded to Zagreb and glanced at Sweet. “It's what they do, mister. None better."

  "Thanks, Sully. Schlitz all around.” Zagreb smiled at the lawyer. “Sully goalied for the Red Wings, the only Mick on a team full of Canucks and Russkies. He's got more gold in his mouth than the Black Hills."

  "I don't follow football."

  The smile vanished. “You got us suspended. Me, I can use the sleep. Burke's got his dames, Mac's got his dear old white-haired mom."

  "Redhead. She bought a five-year supply of henna the day after Pearl."

  "His dear old flame-haired mom. It's Canal I'm worried about. Lonely bachelor walking up and down his crummy cold-water flat, listening to The Guiding Light. You know what it's like when a guy his size cracks down the middle?"

  Canal cracked his knuckles, creating a sound effect. Sweet jumped again, sloshing more of his drink. The top of the table was getting wet and sticky.

  "I don't know either,'” Zagreb went on, “and I don't want to. Who's your client?"

  "What you're asking could get me disbarred."

  "You think we're going to broadcast where we got the information? There isn't a cop in the world who don't sit on his own personal snitch."

  "I detest that word."

  "That's more like it. We're sharing our likes and dislikes."

  Conversation flagged while the bartender set out their beers. When he left, the lawyer glanced around the table, then leaned over and whispered in Zagreb's ear.

  "That's a reasonable request. You boys take your beers over to the bar."

  They obeyed. McReary worried at the label on his bottle with a thumbnail. “You guys ever ashamed you're a cop?"

  Before anyone could answer, the lieutenant threw two dollars on the table and joined them. “A. E. Smallwood, Cleveland Heights."

  Canal said, “Never heard of him. What's his racket?"

  "I didn't ask."

  "You?" Burke's mouth hung open.

  "He's just a fat little guy in a Salvation Army suit. Probably the first job he ever had where he didn't have to worry about smacking into the back of an ambulance. I got a heart."

  Burke said, “Me too, but there's no room in it for lawyers."

  "That's swell, Zag.” McReary sounded like Christmas morning.

  "Hell with him. If that Karpalov cousin he dug up is the real deal, I'm Billy Sunday."

  "Who's—? Aw, skip it. You guys and your washed-up movie stars."

  When they left, Sweet was drinking from the glass Zagreb had filled for him, his highball abandoned.

  * * * *

  On East Jefferson, Burke coasted the Chrysler to a stop behind a black Packard with nickel wheels and set the brake. There were two men in the front seat. “He's home. Guess his mouthpiece followed him downtown."

  McReary said, “Could be he's still there. The commish said he was being brought in."

  "That's Rocco Marconi next to his driver,” Zagreb said. “You couldn't pry a city block between Frankie and his nursemaid."

  Canal looked up at the rundown building. “What's a big cheese like Orr doing keeping his broad in a dump like this?"

  Burke said, “He owns the dump. Wait'll you see the crib."

  "Yeah? When were you there ever?"

  "I seen it in Good Housekeeping."

  The man on the passenger's side of the Packard saw them and opened the door. Canal kicked it shut, just missing his hand. “Stay put, Rocco. “This is a social call."

  The window cranked down. “Big talk, you carny freak. I hear you boys got kicked off the force.” The bodyguard had cauliflower ears and a nose like a twist of rope. Canal took hold of it and twisted it back the other way. He howled. The big sergeant looked at the driver for more, but he merely folded over his Racing Form and resumed reading.

  On their way upstairs, Burke said, “You really think he knows this bird Smallwood?"

  "If he's a rackets guy,” Zagreb said. “They're clubby as hell."

  A sharp-faced blonde in green lounging pajamas answered the apartment door. She was barefoot and all her nails matched the pajamas. “Uh-oh. Somebody left a cage open at the zoo."

  Canal grinned. “That's no way to greet an old friend, Nola. I know you since you checked hats at the Oriole Ballroom."

  "Pants too,” Burke said.

  She started to slam the door. Zagreb stopped it with his shoulder. “We want five minutes with Frankie. Here or at the California, only there it'd be more like an hour."

  "And seem like a week,” McReary said.

  Burke raised his brows at the young detective. “Hey, you're coming along."

  Nola Van Allen walked away from the door. The living room was done all in black and white and chromium. An albino zebra skin lay on the floor. As they entered, Frankie Orr came in from another room drying his jet black hair with a towel. He wore a silk dressing gown embroidered with silver thread and slippers with heraldic crests on the toes. “Aw, c'mon, fellas,” he said. “I just scrubbed off the last of the Osprey."

  "Ox just looks like he stinks,” Zagreb said. “Simmer down, Frankie. You only kill when dough's involved. Who's A. E. Smallwood?"

  Orr got rid of the towel, palmed back his hair, and took a silver-tipped cigarette from a doohickey on a bar with rubber wheels. He lit it with a platinum lighter and blew smoke at the ceiling, showing a tanned throat. “Smallwood. Sounds like a rotten name for a stag-movie actor."

  "You're hiring better writers. Coming up in the world.” Zagreb waited.

  "Seems to me I had a drink once with an Abner Smallwood. I forget just where."

  "Try Cleveland Heights. After the city of the same name."

  "You try it. I lost a good man there once. He went swimming across Lake Huron with a Hupmobile tied to his back."

  "This Smallwood paid to get Eddie Karpalov out of hock."

  "That so? I got a bone to pick with him then. Eddie insulted Nola."

  "You call practically being raped insulted?” She was sitting on the black leather sofa holding a jade cigarette holder with nothing in it. “Your friends can go boil their heads."

  "He wasn't a friend. He thought he was and tried to put the arm on me for a getaway stake. Then he got fresh with my girl. But I wouldn't sell out an enemy to the cops, dead or alive. The way I hear it, you're not even cops no more."

  "Your boy Rocco heard the same thing. The way news travels in this town, it's a wonder anyone bothers to tune in Walter Winchell. So tell us about Smallwood. We're all civilians here."

  "Go swipe an apple."

  Zagreb took a step and hit him on the point of his chin. Orr fell back against the bar, which rolled two feet and dumped half its cargo in an explosion of liquor and crystal. He caught his balance, but his hair was in his face and his eyes lacked focus.

  "Sorry about that, Frankie.” Burke ground out Orr's cigarette on the floor. “The commish took away our guns."

  "Yeah? Maybe telling me wasn't so smart."

  Zagreb sucked his knuckles. “Put your pants on. Threatening us buys you ninety days in County."

  "You said you weren't cops."

  "I stretched it a little. Witherspoon just sent us off to summer camp. He thought we looked tired."

  Orr spat blood on the zebra skin. He'd bitten his tongue.

  Nola leapt to her feet. “You cheap gangster! That won't wash out."

  "Shut up and go in the bedroom. Turn on the radio. Loud."

  She threw her cigarette holder at him and ran into the next room. The door slammed. In a little while noise came out. It sounded like a pair of wrestlers falling down the service stairs.

  "Had to be Drum Boogie.'” Canal shook his head. “Couldn't be Fred Waring."

  Orr browsed the containers left on the bar, found leaded glasses in the cabinet underneath, poured. “You boys never had stuff like this. You never even been in the same room with it."

  "Thanks.
For a thief you got a generous heart.” Zagreb jerked his down, as did Canal and Burke. McReary sipped.

  Orr winced when his touched his tongue. “You can't make that threatening charge stick."

  "If you're so sure, why send Nola to her room?"

  "I'm a busy man, and I already lost half my day, so here's a crumb. Abner Elias Smallwood. He's out of my league. If I fix things between a mug and the mayor, he fixes ‘em between a company president and Washington. Can't get a defense contract? Talk to Smallwood. In a month you're cranking out hatch hinges for the Navy."

  "What's his end?” Zagreb asked.

  "Half a percent."

  Canal snorted. “You built him up like he was big time."

  "You got any idea what Henry Ford cleared last year at the Willow Run plant?"

  Zagreb helped himself to another drink. “What's a minnow like Winston Sweet doing swimming with a whale like Smallwood?"

  "My guess is this Roylston, Ryker, and Reed outfit sails close to shore. No legit firm would touch the case."

  "Why Eddie the Karp?” Zagreb drained his glass again.

  "I said Smallwood talks to the big fish for the little fish. That don't mean it can't work the other way. Somebody big wanted him out on the street bad enough to meet Smallwood's price."

  Zagreb said, “Out in the open, you mean."

  "We're just talking, understand. You can get to a man in the joint, but it leaves a trail. On the street it's anybody's game."

  * * * *

  Zagreb locked the call box on the corner and got back into the Chrysler next to Burke in the driver's seat. “Smallwood's out of town, meeting with Cordell Hull."

  Burke said, “The attorney general?"

  "I think he's secretary of state."

  "Wonder who he wants rubbed out?” Canal asked.

  The lieutenant swigged from a pint he'd swiped from Orr's bar and passed it over the seat to Canal in back. “What's the name of that cop Eddie smoked?"

  "Jim Hooper.” Canal took a pull and gave it to McReary. “He went in the front door when we busted up the Oakland Sugar House Gang in ‘39. I was a harness bull then, same as him."

  "Married, wasn't he?"

  "Sure. I heard she moved in with her mother in Hamtramck."

  Burke got the bottle from McReary, drank, capped it, and slid it into his coat pocket. “Hamtramck it is. I know a market there sells kielbasa under the counter, no stamps.” He started the car.