The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  I wasn’t alone.

  A naked man—melting like ice cream on a birthday cake—lay sprawled on top of the queen-size bed. He was somewhere in his forties. Thinning hair and a milquetoast face stood out as his defining features. His head was propped at an uncomfortable angle against stacked pillows. His legs were thrust apart. An arm flopped over the side. His hairy chest, flat as a plywood board, didn’t move. Cloudy green eyes stared blindly at nothing at all. A third eye where the bridge of his nose used to be bore a bullet-sized hole of dried blood. Blood spattered his temples, smeared his forehead, and ran into his eye sockets. More coagulated blood spilled from an ear and around the back of his neck. A second bullet had drilled a crater through his Adam’s apple. Blood rivulets streaked from the opening and slathered his throat. His jaw hung open. His face was gray and slack. From the state of his genitals and the surprised if not terrified expression of his stiffened facial muscles, he had experienced his last throes of passion and glimpsed his final earthly delights within seconds of each other.

  Since I recognized the dead man and knew his name and reputation, I immediately envisioned the boldface headlines in the evening papers. With any luck, one would have my byline underneath. Though he couldn’t speak and would never speak again, he left behind a deposition for others to transcribe. The bed served as his sarcophagus as well as his final epitaph. When people thought of him in the days and weeks to come, they would recall this final gruesome scene as it was splashed across the front page. Strangers would say that his life had been lived in banality but ended with infamy. No one would remember his accomplishments or defeats, least of all the nervous tic he had of scratching his nose when he was about to lie; the way his avaricious appetite for power engendered praise from allies and scorn from rivals; or the gorgeous blonde wife who turned a lifelong bachelor into a married man. From now on, whenever people spoke of him, they would titter behind shielding hands and remember him like this, a corpse abandoned in room 2201 of the Harmon House Hotel, lonely but not alone.

  Death isn’t pretty and should never be glorified or dismissed. Most people live in a bubble and are unaware that tragedies like this happen every day. The first time I saw a murder victim—a man asphyxiated by a plastic bag—I was twelve years old. For months afterwards, I woke up in the middle of the night, screaming for my father. Daddy was always there to comfort me, but the nightmares didn’t go away for a very long time.

  Making a slow circuit around the room, I inched closer to the bed until I was standing over the corpse. Ligature marks encircled the victim’s wrists. A fragrance of jasmine, rose, sandalwood, and vanilla emanated from the body. Though several blood trails led from the victim’s wounds, each one stopped just short of the bedspread and pillow shams. The corpse wore a wedding band of thin gold on the little finger of his left hand.

  “Sad bastard,” I said to him.

  “I’d have to agree with you,” a voice behind me said. My stomach lurched. The voice went on. “About the bastard part. Wouldn’t be too quick to judge about the sad part, though.”

  Chapter 3

  I SWUNG AROUND. A man I never met before filled the open doorway with a wide stance. Twenty-eight, give or take, he resembled a sipping straw bookended by a curly brown dust mop and platypus feet. A gold pocket watch and cheetah grin finished off the sleazy product, spawned from generations of his kind, men who thought more of themselves than discerning women allowed.

  We were alone ... just him, the corpse, and me. The security guard was nowhere in sight, probably paid off by this joker to step away. I angled for a way to slip out. The stranger tipped his fedora in a friendly way but blocked the doorway. He wore a double-breasted suit, starched white shirt, red-striped tie, and brown penny loafers. He removed the fedora, and twirling it between angular fingers, undressed me with a boorish stare. The grin widened. He liked what he saw. With a kick of his heel, the door swung shut. He nudged his head toward the corpse. “Gives a whole new meaning to the word stiff, doesn’t it?” By crudely referring to the dead man’s pickle, waving at attention, he was being ill mannered as well as coarse.

  “May I remind you,” I said, “you’re in the presence of a lady?”

  “Given your rep?” He shook his head, his grin uncouth. He came across as arrogant. He knew who I was even though I had no idea who he was. And then I figured out where I’d seen the fedora before.

  “You’re the asshole who almost ran me down.”

  He lowered his eyes to my clutched hand. “What’ve you got there?” He moved fast and trapped my arm. His grasp tightened, cutting off the blood flow to my fingertips. His light green eyes met mine and held. They were unapologetic yet oddly kind. Without looking down, he shifted his grip. His hold traveled from my upper arm to my wrist. He wasn’t violent, merely insistent. Using both hands, he unwound my clasped fingers with deliberate care. Finding the looked-for prize in the palm of my hand, he picked up a minuscule item barely visible to the naked eye and lifted it to the window light. “Lint?”

  “Fiber,” I said, rubbing the soreness from my arm. “Wool.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, musing on the insignificance.

  “The body is covered with them.”

  “Ah.” He released the fluff and thrust out his right hand. It was large but graceful. The fingernails were manicured and buffed. A small diamond-shaped scar tattooed his hand just above the thumb. A school ring with a gold-encrusted ruby dominated his ring finger. Gold cufflinks secured the frayed linen cuffs of his shirt. A worn leather strap affixed a Cartier watch to his wrist. He was an odd amalgam of expensive tastes and cut-rate frugality. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Richard Starr.”

  Starr wasn’t the kind of guy I usually go for. Too rough around the edges and too smug. “Who do you work for?” I asked. “Post-News? Or the Observer?”

  Chicago was a four-paper town. Post-News, Times Review, Observer, and Daily Standard. I worked for the Daily Standard. Used to write feature articles. A natural move from there to beat writer, City Hall.

  Starr sniffed the air. “Fetching perfume. Yours?”

  “I don’t wear perfume. If I did, I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Chanel No. 5.”

  He cocked his head in the direction of the corpse. “I don’t think even he would be caught dead wearing Chanel No. 5,” and added, “if he could help it.” He was still holding my hand.

  “You probably work for the Post-News,” I said. “You’d fit right in with those sleazeballs.”

  He let go of my hand and took a fancy to the middle button of my suit jacket, fingering it between thumb and forefinger. He was getting much too familiar. Was he harmless? Was he dangerous? Or both? I settled on both, and knew I was in for trouble. “You’re Iris Grenadine, am I right?” he said. “Used to write obits. A natural move from there to parades and grand openings.”

  His nose was long, thin, and slightly crooked, as if it had been broken in a barroom brawl. His head was shaped like an ax, broad at back and pointy in front. To say he looked untrustworthy was an understatement. “I’ll bet Starr isn’t your real name.”

  “If it isn’t, my dad’s in for a big surprise.”

  “But not your mom.”

  “Oh, you’re fast.” He meant one thing.

  “Not in a million years.” And I meant another.

  He used the button to yank me closer. His eyes ran a circuit around my face, taking in every crease and blemish. “The face, Grenadine.”

  I thrust my chin out and met his laughing eyes. “What about my face?”

  “It’s passable. Some might say pretty. In the right light. With background music and violins. But it doesn’t do justice to the voice.”

  “What about my voice?”

  “Could turn Marlon Brando into a flaming fruitcake.” With sudden force, he two-fisted the lapels of my jacket and crushed his body against mine.

  The pit of my stomach tingled. I exhaled a long breath and glared into his unflinching eyes. “Arrogant
son of a bitch.”

  “So Mom tells me.” His teasing eyes and amused smirk could disarm the most shameless of women. He turned his head on an angle and gawked at me from a distance, gauging my reaction. After the skip of a heartbeat, he planted a sizzling kiss onto my mouth. His lips trembled. Mine did, too. I protested at first, emitting half-hearted utterances interspersed by tiny puffs of air. His breath reeked of Listerine. His face smelled of Old Spice. His lips left mine to once again test my response. My brain said no. My heart said maybe. My eyes must have said yes. He descended for another mouthful of ardor. I gave into passion, and it was only lunchtime.

  Usually more blasé about the egotistical approaches of a man drunk with desire, I became a jellyfish inside his strong arms. What was the matter with me? How could I let a perfect stranger manhandle me as if I were his personal play toy? I gave myself a mental slap and told myself to wake up. After all, I was in a hotel room with a corpse. Adding a rapist to the mix was pure madness.

  He lifted his scorching lips away and cocked his head toward the corpse. “What do you think the motive was? Robbery?”

  “Doubt it,” I said, clearing my throat and trying to look dignified while in the arms of a starry-eyed stranger. “He’s wearing a wedding ring on his left hand. Eighteen-carat gold.” There was also a hundred-dollar bill in his wallet, but I held back the information. “Don’t tell me you missed it?”

  He blushed. A grown man capable of blushing is a man with an embarrassing tale to tell. My first inclination was to dig down, uncover the secret, and use it against him. As it was, I was running late. “Then it wasn’t robbery,” he said. He was wondering what else I had up my sleeve.

  His succulent mouth descended once more. This kiss was hotter. I hiccupped like a woman under the influence, thankful for the clutching hand pressed against my spine and the cinching elbow wrapped around my neck. If not for his support, my knees would have buckled a second time that day, both times because of him, the bastard. He dragged his mouth away. Fluttering my eyes open, I parted my lips and searched his face. He was silently laughing at me.

  His eyes shifted in the direction of the corpse. “I’m putting my bet on a bimbo,” he said. “He got rough and she popped him.”

  He kissed me again, more urgently this time. He was an incredibly good kisser, but enough was enough. I pawed his arms and gave his ribs a pounding. His embrace became more ardent. Further struggle was useless. He was stronger than I was, and to be honest, I liked what he was doing to me. His kisses were exciting. His lips masterful. His tongue action stimulating. His hands electrifying. And his grip spine-tingling. In the end, I wrapped him up like a Christmas present, ribbons and bows binding us together. Held hostage in the grips of passion, I was a kitten in the hands of a cruel master. I let escape satisfying groans of contentment. My knees were about to give way a third time despite his unbreakable grasp. I kept telling myself this was lunacy. A part of me wanted to run. Another part wanted to be taken. Let it be here and let it be now.

  I came up for air. “Had to be the missus. She found him with his lover and went berserk.”

  He delivered another scorcher, this one deeper and longer. My arms went limp. My throat moaned for more. When he lifted his lips away, he said, “There’s a missus?”

  “Supposed to be a knockout,” I said, breathless. I awaited the next assault, but instead, he left a friendly peck on my lips before setting me back on my feet. I lifted the back of my hand to my brow. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “wow.” He retrieved his fedora from the floor. After repositioning the hat with an energetic tug, he slid a finger along the rim as a sultry acknowledgment of our exchange. It was a symbolic thank you, as though he had purchased me but hadn’t paid for the privilege.

  Regaining my composure, I perused my fingernails. “I’ll bet you work for that rag, the Observer.”

  He meandered around the room, searching for clues. “I’m sure you know that when you file your story, your editor’s going to bury it in the fly-fishing section.”

  “The Daily Standard doesn’t have a fly-fishing section.”

  “It will for this evening’s edition.”

  “What’re you angling at?”

  Starr spun around, rocked back on his heels, and plunged both hands into his trouser pockets. “Do I have to point out that you’re admiring the remains of Richard Byrnes?”

  “He’s the mayor’s former campaign manager.”

  “Not only that.”

  I knew what he was getting at. “And the mayor’s newly appointed comptroller.”

  “Don’t laugh,” he said. “He’s on the city payroll for five figures.”

  “The worst grease job since Noxzema.”

  “My guess is the mayor doesn’t want a scandal on his watch.”

  I braced hands on hips. “Are you trying to tell me the mayor would pay any price to keep this story off the front page?”

  He snapped the rim of his fedora and angled his eyes toward the bed. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but isn’t he the same Richard Byrnes who singlehandedly brought in the April election by a plurality of 700,000 votes?”

  “Can’t say the man didn’t know how to count.”

  Having resumed his search for evidence, he said, “Registered more ghost voters than anyone in the city’s history.”

  “You’ve heard the saying,” I said. “‘Vote early, vote often.’”

  “Didn’t Arezzo coin the phrase?” he said casually. The dead man’s clothes were folded on a chair next to the armoire. Starr checked pockets without disturbing the tidy stack. He paused. Remembered something. And snapped his eyes back at me. “Bet you were there when he said it.”

  “Arezzo?” I said, playing dumb. “As in Joey ‘The Zipper’ Arezzo?” Affectionately dubbed ‘The Zipper’ since he was known to zipper a rival’s mouth shut with a row of .38-caliber bullets, Arezzo recently surfaced as the titular head of the Chicago mob.

  “Is there any other Arezzo?” Starr said, thumbing through Byrnes’s billfold.

  “Oh-h-h ... that Arezzo ... boss of the Chicago Outfit.”

  He spun around, graceful as an acrobat, and shot a direct look at me. “Acting boss until the IRS finishes filleting Tommy ‘Big Catfish’ Esposito. Then permanent boss.”

  “Forgetting Bogart so soon?”

  He tilted his head, impressed by my handle on the facts. “John ‘Big Nose’ Bogart? One-time bodyguard of Al Capone? Sometimes called ‘The Fishmonger’ cause he likes to deep-six his victims in Lake Michigan. That Bogart?”

  “None other,” I said.

  “I’m not forgetting Bogart, but Arezzo has.”

  The hierarchy of Chicago’s syndicate wasn’t always clear-cut. Capone, Nitti, Serrano, Esposito, Bogart, Arezzo. They all had surnames spelled with too many vowels. But with all the speculation and hand-whispering going on for several months now, no one really knew who was running the mob, though it definitely wasn’t Capone or Nitti, unless they were doing it from neighboring graves.

  I hoisted the collar of my suit jacket. The saffron linen flattered my figure, and the designer label broadcast my penchant for fashion. “And anyway, how should I know what Arezzo says or doesn’t say?”

  “Considering you’re ...” He searched for the right word. “... a newspaperwoman ... must’ve been there when he said it.”

  “Wouldn’t that have been something, huh,” I said. “Like being there when Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address.”

  He nodded in the direction of the corpse. “You’re not suggesting Arezzo ordered the hit, are you?”

  “You’re the one who brought him up.”

  He glanced at Byrnes, his eyes intent. “Between you and me, I heard our friend here was setting up a particular city alderman for a fall.”

  He didn’t have to say the alderman’s name. Johnny Kirk was as notorious as they came. He played both sides of the street, one hand in the government till and the other in the mob’s back pocket. He’d been a tho
rn in the mayor’s side long before people started calling Jerry Moore ‘Hizzoner’. There was more behind Starr’s casual mention of Kirk than met the eye. Having shown up at the hotel room where the mayor’s confidante was rotting away as we spoke was too coincidental. Those hot kisses and hard clutches had clouded my judgment. The weather called for sunshine. From now on, blues skies were in the forecast.

  Starr approached the corpse, stopped short of an invisible line, and leaned as close as he dared. Clearly, he was uncomfortable around stiffs, but curiosity overcame aversion. He examined the blood trails and pristine bedclothes beneath. Waved a hand over the body and sniffed the latent whiffs of perfume. Focused on the ligature marks around the wrists but detected none on the ankles. Took in the livor mortis on his abdomen and the chalky whiteness on his underside. Noted the wedding band, glinting gold and expensive. Scrutinized the corpse’s contortionist pose. And made a close study of the entry wounds. Finally, he picked up a long blonde hair from the bedspread. “Yours?” He approached, holding the artifact up to my brunette waves. “Guess not.”

  “Who tipped you off, Starr? About Byrnes?”

  “They told me to stay clear of you.” Glancing around to make sure nobody but the stiff could hear, he arched his eyebrows and spoke in low tones. “Said Iris Grenadine gets cops killed, maimed, shot, drummed off the force, rubbed out, framed, and entrapped. Not necessarily in that order.”