The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  “You’re no fun at all,” I said, and lowered my hands.

  After holstering the weapon, he draped an arm over my shoulder and walked me away from his men and into the shadows. “I’m only gonna ask you once,” he asked, his voice dripping congeniality and reasonableness, belying the malice underneath. “Where’re your buddies?”

  “Which buddies?” I asked innocently.

  “Starr. Kirk. Stacy. Arezzo’s henchmen.”

  “Why not ask Monica Seagraves?”

  He ran calloused fingers through my hair as if he had the right. I brushed his arm away. Congeniality remained but reasonable faded away. “Just say the word, Iris, and we can leave everything behind.”

  I smiled, but not a very complicit smile or complacent smile. “And go where?”

  He saw my annoyance but was determined to make his point. “A hotel room comes to mind.”

  “The Ritz? Paris is lovely this time of year. Champs-Élysées. Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame Cathedral. We can stroll hand-in-hand along the Seine and throw caution to the wind.”

  He threw his head aside and smirked. He was annoyed with me as much as I was annoyed with him, but with a difference. I wanted to put him in his place. He wanted to strangle me with his bare hands. Malice rose like froth to his lips. “If I can’t find anyone else to pin the murders on, there’s always you.”

  “Who told you Arezzo’s boys would be here?” I touched my fingertip to his swollen lip.

  He winced, threw his head aside, and captured my wrist in his fist. “What’s it to you?”

  “Someone tipped you off,” I said.

  “An anonymous source.”

  “A lady in black, perchance? With bodacious bazooms? Who ...” I glanced around. “... seems to have flown the coop?”

  He tugged me close. His breath washed across my mouth. His lips were within kissing distance, but instead of kissing, they spoke. “Monica Seagraves doesn’t talk to me, and I don’t talk to her.” He could scarcely contain his anger.

  “Tumbling in bed with the lights turned down low doesn’t require talk, only lip reading.”

  The stern set of his mouth relaxed. The fire in his eyes doused. A faint glimmer of humor appeared. Then a thin-lipped smile surfaced. “Take off before I really lose my temper.” He released me with a pat on my rump and tramped toward the Pontiac.

  I called after him. “Did you find out anything about the Holt girl?”

  He glanced over a shoulder and shook his head. With a last look that held affection, he ducked into the car.

  I never knew how to take Pennyroyal, whether he was lover or adversary, ally or foe, friend or disaster waiting to happen. Maybe all. Maybe none. Yet I was in the unenviable position of having to rely on him for information, cooperation, and support, even though the information was suspect, the cooperation spotty, and the support random. Given his cop code, he could also save my life one day.

  In a cloud of exhaust, the Pontiac roared off. One by one, the squad cars peeled away. I was alone.

  Chapter 34

  I TOOK A seat on the curb and unwrapped a stick of gum. Sporadic traffic cruised along Wells Street while trains rumbled along the tracks above. Three minutes into the vigil, Stacy showed up, his pink face glowing under a street lamp. He made a show of being out of breath. “See where Kirk got off to?”

  “He’s gone. Everybody’s gone.”

  “Except you, Grenadine. You may be the new kid on the block, but you’re almost as ambitious as yours truly.” He tugged at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves and puffed his chest out like a rooster. “Need a lift?”

  “I’d rather hitch a ride with Machine Gun McGurn on St. Valentine’s Day.”

  “Isn’t he dead?” When I didn’t answer, he started to laugh. “Oh, I get it. He is. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Like the lonely kid on a playground who always gets picked last, he stuck hands into his pants pockets and melted into the city.

  Not much later, Starr moseyed out of the night and lowered himself beside me. “Lost Kirk. Moves fast for a fat man.”

  I looked over at him. He was cool as a cucumber. Nothing seemed to rattle him. “You’ll have to teach me that rappelling move.”

  “Trade secret.” He pushed back his fedora. “Anything juicy happen since I was gone? Earth-shattering newsflash? Thermonuclear war? An ice storm in July? Space aliens taking over the world? Pennyroyal shooting himself in the foot?”

  “Should only be so lucky,” I said, chortling. “He thinks he can pin the Byrnes’s murder on me. Like, really.” It sounded self-mocking, but I didn’t mean it to. I meant it to sound bitter.

  “Trying to say you didn’t?”

  I showed him my irritation with an eyeful. He bumped his shoulder against mine. He was only joking, but it wasn’t a laughing matter. After three days of digging up facts, being lied to, given the run-around, stalked, terrified, threatened, frisked, pimped, set up, and put down, I wasn’t any closer to solving the case of the green-eyed dick or filing my exclusive. Funnily enough, though, I was the ideal candidate for writing a scintillating exposé on my father.

  “How come Pennyroyal has it in for you?” His eyes slid sideways. It was more than just an innocent question. Intrigue lay behind his curiosity. And possibly jealousy.

  “Ever since his wife stepped out, he pretty much hates all women.” I hoped that would end the discussion. It didn’t. The night lay between us, heavy with fatigue. Starr wasn’t stupid. He smelled something. I hesitated broaching the subject but reasoned he’d find out eventually. “Familiar with the Gilooley scandal?”

  Settling in for the long haul, he leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his legs.

  “Captain Ian Gilooley,” I said. “Reportedly the most corrupt cop of all-time. Openly consorted with underworld figures. Never once solved a gangland murder. And yet, when he ran for Cook County Sheriff back in ’46, became the first Republican in twenty years to defeat a Democrat. Care to guess who his opposing candidate was?”

  “Jerry Moore,” he said.

  “Fast forward several months. Gilooley was working hand-in-hand with the Chicago Crime Commission. Collectively they pruned the Public Enemies list until every name touting a rep big enough to occupy a permanent cell in county jail was scratched off. Enter Donny Lewinsky. Lewinsky controlled the rackets in the 19th Ward, political protection provided by then Alderman Remy Schneider. With Esposito’s blessing, Arezzo shoved Lewinski aside. Understandably upset, Lewinsky and Schneider raised a stink. Big mistake. Lewinsky was gunned down in front of a saloon on Western Avenue. The shooter only nicked him, but Arezzo accomplished what he wanted. Lewinsky and Schneider left town on the next bus. Gilooley hauled in the usual suspects but let everyone go. Here’s the irony. Johnny Kirk ran for Schneider’s seat and won.”

  “Then you come along, fresh out of journalism school to take over where the Crime Commission left off.”

  “Someone told you.”

  “Educated guess.”

  “Pennyroyal worked vice back then. Out of Bloody Maxwell, same as now. I gave him a jingle. He was upfront, charming, talkative, and eager to cooperate. I put together one hell of an investigative piece, even if I do say so myself. My editor liked it, gave it the green light, and then ....” I let my voice trail off.

  “The story was pulled.” Starr might have been a smooth operator, full of one-liners, and a schmoozer since birth, but he was smart enough to piece the details together. Or else he already knew them. “And you’ve held a grudge against Pennyroyal ever since.”

  “He’s held it against me, the dick. Just because every cop in town is convinced he’s a stool pigeon.”

  “It got out?”

  “That a cop was conspiring with the press against his brotherhood?” Gloating at the mere deliciousness of the thought, I beamed. “Sure, it got out.”

  “Which you didn’t have anything to do with.”

  “What? Me? Vindictive?”

  His laughter was hearty. I laughed with him, tittering under my
breath and nudging his knee with mine, co-conspirators for one brief shining moment. He stretched to his feet and reached down. “Let’s say we go for a drink.”

  Just then, the pasty-faced wise guy stepped out from a shadow, hand in pocket and fedora cocked to one side.

  “You just missed Detective Pennyroyal,” I said to him. “He was hoping to have an intimate talk with you, accompanied by manacles and rubber hoses.”

  Grinning, the albino stole nearer, the balls of his feet bearing his weight like a ballet dancer. His cheek twitched with spitefulness “Who are you?” he said. “What were you doing up there? Who tipped you off?”

  I cocked my head toward Starr. “He did.”

  The albino’s eyes snapped in Starr’s direction.

  Starr displayed a cocky smile and a mild expression. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s it to me, asshole.” Even though the albino was a head shorter than Starr, he delivered a series of jabs, punches, slaps, and thumps.

  Deflecting, bobbing, and countering every blow, Starr grinned and egged him on. “Come on! Do it! What’re waiting for? You can do better than that!”

  The wise guy weaved and grunted—knuckles grazing, slicing, glancing, stinging—but never connecting with a solid clout or jarring whack. Tired of the game, Starr threw out his leg, clipped the wise guy behind the knees, grabbed him by the wrist, flipped him around, and twisted his arm behind his back. The wise guy squirmed, kicked, threw out his free arm. Starr stepped up the pressure. The wise guy squawked. Starr torqued the arm at a vertical angle. The wise guy squealed. Starr kneed him in the back. The wise guy sank to his haunches and prayed to the great god Richard Starr, his face a rictus of agony. Then he made a mistake, mumbling something incomprehensible, a final act of bravado.

  “What?” Starr said menacingly into his ear. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Nothing, man! Nothing!”

  “Say it again, asshole, so I can hear you!”

  “NOTHING!”

  Starr let him go and kicked him in the butt. The wise guy rolled into the gutter. Groaned. Heaved onto all fours. Threw off street muck. Growled with pain. Howled at the moon. Struggled to his feet. Weaved drunkenly. And threw out a leg, spinning with the agility of a gazelle. The action impelled him forward. He gathered speed and momentum, hunkered low like a hurdler, sprang off his feet, and with head down, tackled Starr to the ground. Starr landed on the flat of his back, the wind knocked out of him. The wise guy jumped to his feet and kicked the toe of his metal-tipped shoe into Starr’s ribs. Starr squelched with agony and curled into a fetal ball, groaning.

  The wise guy charged in my direction. I backed away. He hooked onto a sleeve, spun me around, whipped me against his chest, and wedged his arm across my throat, stifling any screams. A knife appeared. Streetlight glinted off the blade. He made the metal dance. “Who the fuck are you people?”

  The roar of a flathead V-8 engine, the screech of Goodyear treads, and the vigorous application of disc brakes roared onto the scene. The ’54 Ford Skyliner boasted a Plexiglas sunroof, glimmering body paint of sandstone white and cadet blue, matching vinyl interior, dual exhaust, snowball tires, and a decorative tire holder. The dapper driver behind the wheel barreled down on us and jumped the curb. Armand Centanni shouted out the window. “Leave the girl alone, Mickey, or answer to the boss.”

  Mickey applied extra pressure against my throat. I stretched my neck and stood on tippy toe, starved for oxygen. “Our pigeon’s fucking gone to Siberia and back, laughing at our expense! It’s these twos’ fault.”

  “The boss won’t like it you involved civilians.”

  “To hell with civilians, he won’t like it we let the mark get away!”

  An ominous click cut off his rant. Starr gripped an ivory-handled snub-nosed .38 with one hand and his gut with the other. “Like the man said, leave the girl alone.”

  Mickey stiffened. His stranglehold intensified. “Shit,” he said. “You wouldn’t do that, mister. You’d shoot your girlfriend instead.”

  Pressing lips flat against his teeth, Starr raised his aim. “From here on out, you’ll be hearing from only one side of your head.” He shifted his aim an inch to the left. “After that, you won’t be hearing much of anything at all.”

  Centanni lifted his newly acquired Colt .45, cocked the hammer, and pointed it, one eye squeezed shut and the other focusing on his target. “After he gets done with your ears, I’ll take out both your eyes.”

  Mickey studied the Colt. “Is that mine?”

  “I find. I keep.”

  All three representatives of the male species miscalculated the ability of a lady to defend her virtue. Though I might have weighed a measly 120 pounds soaking wet, and my captor was nearly twice as heavy and possessed the upper body strength of a sumo wrestler, certain advantages were at my disposal, such as the element of surprise. I closed my fist around one of his balls and pitched a screwball while the horsehide was still attached to the horse’s hide.

  Mickey shrieked like a betty. “Jesus, lady, let go!”

  “I’m no lady.”

  Pink-faced, he fell to his knees, clutching his crotch with both hands, eyes wide open, mouth screaming silently. The real screams finally came, girly and effeminate, and echoed down the canyon of Wells Street, echoing along the way. The screams slacked off to sputtering wails, sobbing notes and breathy laments. He tentatively checked himself out to make sure he had two of everything that counted and one of the remaining component that didn’t come naturally in pairs.

  “Face it, Mickey,” Centanni said, “my fiancée showed you who’s boss. Stop screwing around and get into the goddamn car.”

  Mickey considered his options. Since he didn’t want to chance becoming a contralto, he limped over to the car and crawled into the passenger seat. Centanni tipped his hat. The Skyliner roared away. The night fell silent except for Starr’s stuttering breath. He tipped up the rim of his fedora and raised a trembling hand to a sweaty forehead. His gun hand got the shakes.

  I fingered the weapon from his grip. “Know how to use one of these?”

  “Hell, no. I only carry it around as a boutonniere. Yeah, Grenadine, I know how to use it. Just never had to.”

  “Not even when you were a cop?”

  “Never came up.”

  I was still looking it over. “It’s a .38.”

  “Uh-huh ....”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Byrnes was killed with two .38 bullets.”

  “Must be a million .38s in Chicago alone.”

  Dubious, I twisted my mouth.

  “Okay. You caught me red-handed. I turned Byrnes into Swiss cheese and returned to the scene of the crime to see who would show up and why. And voilà, Iris Grenadine walks straight into my awaiting arms. Darned cuddly, too.”

  We narrowed our eyes at each other. It was a draw. Grudgingly, I returned the double-deuce to its owner. “Better put your lady’s gun away before you hurt somebody.” Playing dumb, I asked, “So, ah, who were those guys anyway?”

  Playing me for a fool, he said, “Plainclothes cops.”

  “Never could stomach applesauce, Starr, not since I was five.”

  He reset his fedora. “My guess, they’re with the Outfit.”

  “You think so?”

  “You know so. Question is, why were they targeting one of their own?”

  “You mean Kirk?”

  “To keep him from cutting a deal with the Feds.” Johnny Kirk stepped out of the shadows. His king-size suit hung from sloping shoulders. Broad lapels curled in the steamy heat. He removed his Homburg, untangled an oversized handkerchief from a trouser pocket, and mopped sweat from his brow. “Not that I would ever ratfink.”

  “But if you did,” I asked, “would it concern farmland out near the airport?”

  He confided in Starr. “She always this direct?”

  “On Thursdays, definitely. Unsure about the rest of the week.”

  Kirk shoved the hat ba
ck onto his head. “Shall we retire to a more commodious setting?”

  Chapter 35

  LOCATED A SHORT block away, the Midland Hotel prided its reputation on Rococo décor, gold-leaf ornamentation, vaulted arches, mahogany accents, marble columns, and deluxe accommodations. In the lobby, deep leather chairs invited cozy assignations. A little boy and a little girl thought it was the perfect place to play hide-and-seek. A grand staircase led to a bank of elevators. Guests strolled along the mezzanine’s perimeter and swept up and down the stairs like peacocks at a garden party.

  We located the lounge, and thinking alike, took an isolated table in back, where the lamps were low wattage and shadows dominated the corners. The piano bar tinkled in the background. A cocktail waitress took our order. Sitting with his back against the wall, Kirk once again plucked the handkerchief from his pocket and tamped his face, flamingo pink against the dialed-down lamplight. A small white tablet emerged from a cloisonné pillbox. He plopped it under his tongue and sat back, waiting for the nitroglycerin to take effect.

  “Did you ice Dick Byrnes?”

  “She did it again, Starr.” The bass timber of his voice growled like a rabid dog ready to bite. Loud men like him didn’t intimidate me. The ultra-quiet ones did.

  “She’s only repeating what I coach her to say,” Starr said. My partner in crime, a tenuous relationship if ever there was one, was thinking along the same lines. Kirk was the killer, and even if he wasn’t, he knew who the killer was.

  “You just won’t go away, will you, lady? Even after I fingered you at the Big Dive. Thought Pennyroyal would put you away for a good long time and get the monkey off my back.”

  “Pardon me if I suspect the worst,” I said, “but you have a rap sheet as long as the Chicago River.”

  “Guilty as charged. I was born a hellion. Gave my dear sweet mother a hell of a lot of grief, one of the reasons she went early to the grave.” He reached for the water glass and emptied the contents, afterwards swiping a sleeve across his mouth. “Been straight as an arrow since ’43.”