The Green-Eyed Dick

by J. S. Chapman

  Maybe his dear sweet mother was smiling down from heaven, but his penitence didn’t move me to tears. “Except for brokering the O’Hare deal.”

  His rheumy eyes disappeared behind wrinkly folds. “Everything was strictly on the up and up.”

  “Until someone—someone like Richard Byrnes, for instance—starts digging around.”

  “Hell, have at it. May the best man ....” He flourished a fleshy hand. “... or lady ... win.”

  The waitress delivered our drinks. I removed the umbrella from mine. The gin was Beefeater, the brandy was Courvoisier, the grenadine was Monin, the lime juice was fresh, the egg white was whipped, and the ice was chipped. Starr nursed a Glenlivet and water. Kirk went with sherry, his choice of genteel spirits at odds with his bulldog image. “How’s your pink lady?” he asked. “Tasty?

  “Speaking of which,” I said. “Crystal White aka Cynthia Kay Whitehead.”

  He plucked a Havana from an inside breast pocket and clipped the end. The tobacco crinkled between fat fingers. He used a match to light up, and when the tip glowed, let smoke seep from his mouth. “Who?”

  “The blonde Byrnes was with when he was murdered.”

  “Was that her name?”

  “I have a theory. Want to hear it?” I didn’t wait for permission. “Let’s say a certain third party paid the Li sisters something extra for a particular hooker, her regular john, and access to a secret panel with a two-way mirror, the perfect setup for an execution, gangland style.”

  He puffed a perfect ring of smoke toward the ceiling. “It’s been done before. Almost like you describe. I remember a wiseass back in ’38 ... but I won’t bore you with the gory details.” He looked into the distance and rolled the cigar as if pondering his final reward when he crossed the great divide from this life into the next. “Would’ve enjoyed taking out Byrnes, no doubt about it. No love lost between us. But there’re easier ways of dealing with pipsqueaks like him. Some fellas caught with their dick in the air would do anything to keep it from the missus, the boss, and if he were important enough, the newspapers. Maybe even trade a dossier for a stack of eight-by-ten glossies.” Kirk folded his hands over his paunch and gnawed the nib of his cigar. “My bet? When he didn’t cough up, the moll plugged him.”

  “She’s dead.”

  His bushy eyebrows arched. “You don’t say.”

  “Let’s give this unnamed third party the benefit of the doubt. Let’s say he was only there for a photojournalistic assignment. In that case, he might have in his possession incriminating photos.”

  “Of the killer? Shit, if this third party did, wouldn’t give them to no reporter.”

  “The police then?”

  “Oh, you’re funny, lady. Funnier than hell. But see, there’d be too many questions asked with no good answers. Hell, the cops would sooner hang him with his own belt than wait for Old Sparky to do her duty.” He leaned forward, his red-ringed eyes droopy with too much liquor and too many sleepless nights. “And anyway, who gives a shit about the murder of a guy who probably deserved everything he got and more?”

  “The girl didn’t deserve it. And the Big Dive has many false mirrors and several peepholes.”

  His face jerked to the side as if he’d just been sucker-punched. He regarded me from the corners of his bloodshot eyes. He was thinking what I wanted him to think. The Li sisters wouldn’t hesitate sacrificing his skin to save their own. And I wouldn’t hesitate talking them into it. His face turned fiendish.

  Fear skittered along my spine, snatching my breath away. My heart beat with a ragged thud. I’d gone up against meaner bastards, but this boor gave me the jitters. I didn’t want to push him too far but had to push him far enough to tell me what he knew. I fortified myself with a cautious gulp of my drink, my eyes never once leaving his face. The tartness burned my throat but took the edge off a rising headache. On a sharp intake of breath, I said, “Your ego must be bigger than your hat size.”

  He was as ugly a man as I’d ever met. Veiled threats and personal attacks turned him uglier. His complexion was gray and turgid. He wheezed like a dying man. If a bullet didn’t get him soon, he would likely drop dead in the middle of a dark street. He slapped his hands on the table, a prelude to getting up and walking out. But he was driven by fatalistic curiosity. He wanted to hear me out. He settled back, his cocky expression clouding over with doubt, the kind of doubt that came from knowing he hadn’t covered his tracks well enough.

  Lifting the drink to my lips, I said, “When you sold that farmland, you took the city for a bundle.”

  “City paid fair value.”

  “Twice what Arezzo paid the dairy farmers.”

  “They didn’t know what they were milking.” He tipped his head back and roared, his voice booming off the walls. The way he was making a scene gave me a sense of security. If something bad happened, people would remember him. His smile faded. “If anyone got cheated, it’d come down to the farmers. They were dirt poor anyway, glad for a little cash, so where’s the harm?”

  “A prosecutor might have something to say on the subject.”

  Kirk looked to Starr for guidance. “Who’s running this show, anyway?”

  “She wants to know who paid you to make life difficult for Byrnes. Blackmail or murder, it amounts to the same thing. Either way, you’re going down for the fall.”

  The alderman used his drink to buy time. Then he used his cigar as a battering ram to drive home a point. “Wasn’t Bogart.”

  “I already know that,” I said. “Those goons at the el station? They belong to Arezzo.”

  “Aren’t you the smarty pants. But it wasn’t Arezzo, either.”

  “If it wasn’t Bogart or Arezzo, it leaves only one person. The mayor.”

  The sherry wasn’t cutting it for him. He needed something stronger. The cocktail waitress acknowledged his signal. The room purred with conversation, none of it ours. His drink arrived. He took his Jack Daniels straight and his cigars one-fisted. “Okay, want to hear the gospel according to Saint James? I’ll level with you. Guilty. I was dogging Byrnes. Only to reason with him. Describe the lay of the land. Bastard told me where to go. I arranged a photo shoot. Figured I’d dicker with him man to man. I agree not to sully his reputation ... he backs off.”

  There was some truth to what he said, but he was leaving out one important piece of the puzzle, the one smack-dab in the middle of Byrnes’s forehead. “You didn’t follow Byrnes to the Big Dive just to reason with him. You wanted to get rid of the evidence. Unplug the mouthpiece. And do it in one clean shot.”

  He struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “What a numbskull, huh. Talk about missed opportunities. Could’ve waltzed into Arezzo’s house and made myself look like a fucking hero. Walk away with a bankroll for efforts above and beyond. They’d celebrate me from here to Schenectady and back to Vegas. Everybody happy. Except for three things.” He sat forward, elbows planted on the table and face red as a stop sign. “First, even if I did plug the bastard, the dossier would’ve still been out there. Second, I didn’t whack him. Would’ve enjoyed it, make no mistake, but I didn’t. And third, another guy let himself into that room.”

  Though my heartbeat quickened, I sat back and casually crossed my arms. “I’m listening.”

  “The man you’re looking for wore black pants, black turtleneck sweater, black boots, and a Panama hat. Couldn’t see his face.”

  “Where are the photos now?”

  “Film didn’t come out.”

  “Like hell.” He had the photos, all right, but planned to keep them as insurance. “Was the killer one of the wise guys?”

  “They carry .45s.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Didn’t know nothing except for having one hell of a headache when she woke up. By then, I was long gone and so was the shooter.”

  “Yet Arezzo seems to think you have the dossier. Pennyroyal, too. Maybe the Feds, too.”

  “Ah, she finally gets it. Whichever way I pla
y my hand, I’m a dead man.”

  The cigar fumes were dizzying. “Not if you turn over the negatives,” I said. “Not if you turn state’s evidence.”

  His eyes darted around the lounge. Every patron became a potential FBI agent or mob hit man. “Am I being recorded? Is this a goddamn setup?” He moved fast for a fat man, reaching across the table, ripping open the bodice of my blouse, and exposing bare flesh and a lacy bra. He would’ve stripped me of all modesty if Starr hadn’t kicked his chair back and surfed fists first across the table.

  Drinks splashed. Glasses crashed. Knuckles connected.

  An ominous click forced everyone to freeze. Thumb poised on cock, I pointed the Remington derringer squarely between Kirk’s eyeballs. He crawled back and pumped his hands high into the air. Patrons scrambled for cover. The piano player kept playing. Starr shook his fist with pain.

  “Careful, lady,” Kirk said. “Don’t want to shoot nobody.”

  “Don’t call me lady.” I clutched the gun grip with steely determination, but in the line of my sights, the barrel was quivering like a tuning fork. I hoped to hell Kirk wouldn’t notice.

  He noticed, but it worried him even more. Concern pinched the corners of his eyes. He heaved a shuddering sigh and stopped breathing altogether. “Whatever you say. Just put the gun down easy like. Wouldn’t want it to go off by accident.” Kirk deliberately lowered himself into his chair and diffused the tension with a puff of his cigar. “Wasn’t gonna hurt you. Hell, at this point, only vices I got left are torching up, knocking back, and dreaming on.”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  He plunked the Homburg back onto his head and lumbered to his feet. Saluting, he said, “Later, Starr. Miss Grenadine.” He plodded his way out of the lounge, wheezing and hacking.

  Chapter 36

  WHEN HE WAS gone, Starr reached down and drew the hems of my blouse together, respectfully buttoning the two remaining buttons.

  I was still pointing the Remington ... at him. Adrenalin had turned everyone and everything into a potential threat. “Nothing you have to prove by me, Iris Grenadine. You’re one hell of a ...” He leaned over and pressed his lips to mine while extracting the pistol from my grasp and dropping it into my purse. “... lady.”

  I didn’t remember getting up. Or Starr guiding me out of the lounge. I did remember the frightened expressions on several faces as we left.

  The lobby of a Loop hotel never sleeps. Guests were returning from dinner and the theater, or heading out for dancing and a nightcap. Locked at the waist, young couples beamed with the expectation of an enjoyable night extending into early morning. Grande dames and dapper chaps, graying at the edges but dripping money, preened for admirers. Hotel personnel moved sluggishly, anticipating the end of a long shift. A man sitting on a divan crossed his legs like a woman and folded the evening edition to the sports section.

  We stepped out into the night. The humidity was thick and the breezeless heat, thicker. A thrum you could feel under your feet rather than hear with your ears convulsed the street. An el train rolled over the seams of the tracks above, wheels beating out a familiar rhythm. Clackety-clack-clack. Clackety-clack-clack.

  We watched Kirk’s receding back as he disappeared into the night, heading east. He’d lit up a fresh cigar. When the night consumed every one of his features, the tip’s glow remained until that, too, was extinguished by dark shadows.

  “Should we follow him?”

  “Nothing to follow,” Starr said with a sigh. “He knew we were watching him. He wasn’t in a hurry. He got rid of the cigar. He’s already doubled back. Or gone around the block. Or turned left instead of right. He isn’t where you think he is. He’s already lost us.”

  I tipped back my head to get a good look at him. His earlier rage was gone, replaced by calm appraisal. His cop eyes were still studying the street. He glanced down and pulled me into his arms. It felt safe there. He lowered his face and delivered a friendly kiss.

  We parted and crossed the street toward our cars. The air gave me a boost. A minute before, I was ready to crawl into the bed and pull the covers over my head. Now I was raring to meet the night on its terms. After flinging away the parking ticket tucked beneath the windshield wiper, I prepared to climb into the Bel Air. Starr grabbed my elbow, confiscated my keys, and steered me toward the Buick. “You’re in no condition to drive a golf ball much less that hotrod of yours.”

  Though reluctant, I didn’t fight him. “Just because I’m missing a couple buttons ....”

  “You’re missing more than that, lady.”

  While Starr rolled down the top, I freshened up in the rearview mirror. Brushed on fresh mascara. Pinched my cheeks. Primped my hair. Applied lipstick.

  The damaged blouse, which revealed a tantalizing amount of cleavage, distracted Starr. “Hot date?” he said.

  “Jealous?” When I saw his green-eyed look, I said, “Good.”

  The corners of his mouth pinched with irritation. “Where to?”

  First, I told him where to go. Then I gave him a friendlier alternative. He chose the latter and took off with a lurch. I settled into the seat and closed my eyes. Wind funneling into the car soothed my frazzled soul. Once we left downtown, traffic thinned. We didn’t talk much on the way. At one point, he took my hand and held it. “I’m not a damsel in distress, Starr,” I said without opening my eyes.

  Several minutes later, he pulled in front of an innocuous storefront on the south side and engaged the brakes. “I give,” he said. “Where are we?”

  “Chess Records.”

  From his, “Ah,” I gathered he was clueless.

  “Don’t tell me you never heard of Len and Phil Chess.”

  “Ah,” he said again with the same cluelessness.

  “They own a string of popular blues clubs.”

  “Uh-huh.” He turned to open the driver’s side door.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “When they found out that some of their most popular acts weren’t being picked up by recording studios, they started their own label.”

  He let go of the door handle. “Oh?”

  “Muddy Waters was their first recording artist.” I reached for his tie. “Half the songs on the R&B charts belong to Chess Records.” I loosened the knot. “RCA wants to buy them out, but the brothers won’t sell.” I used the loosened noose to yank him within kissing distance. “You’ve heard Rollin’ Stone and Walkin’ Blues, right?” I tasted a corner of his mouth. “Tell me you listen to Al Benson ... disc jockey on WGES Radio ... 1390 on the dial.” I tasted the other corner. “Poor dear, you don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

  “Oh, yes, I do.” We kissed. One kiss led to two kisses, which led to three. We became entangled in the tie. The car door swung shut. The ragtop powered up. The windows whined to a sealed position. The locks engaged. The radio clicked on.

  “This is a bad idea,” I said through quickened breaths. “A ... really ... bad ... idea.”

  “We can climb into the back seat if you want.” He ran his lips along the length of my neck, kissing as he went.

  I stretched away. “That’s not what I meant.” A one-night stand was one thing. A two-night fling was another. A tango in the front seat of a Buick Super Convertible was tantamount to commitment.

  “Or we can check into a hotel.”

  His fedora flipped onto the floorboard. My shoes fell from my feet. Rock Around the Clock boomed over the radio. The windshield became foggy. The cabin turned steamy.

  Ten minutes later, we sat up. I slipped my shoes back on. Starr reset his fedora. We both tried to look as if we hadn’t just engaged in a tempestuous clutch of bodies and sweat. I cleared my throat. He relieved the crick in his neck. We reached for our respective doors.

  Reading my mind, he said, “Before we go any further―”

  I beat him to the punch. “It could never work out between us.”

  “We’re as different as yin and yang.”

  “Abbott and Costello.”
/>
  “Karl Marx and his brother Harpo.”

  “Just because I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me―”

  “Doesn’t mean we have a thing for each other.”

  “It’s just a fling.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but what a fling.”

  We rushed into each other’s arms, smooching, kissing, caressing, and ripping at each other’s clothes. Several minutes later, we broke apart and put ourselves back together. I neatened my hair. He straightened his tie. I reapplied my makeup. He combed his hair. I made sure all my remaining buttons were buttoned. He made certain his fedora was secure.

  We got out of the car and strolled up to Chess Records. No one answered the doorbell. The door was unlocked, so we went in. After sauntering past the front office, we came up on the soundproof recording studio. The control room was rigged with an Ampex two-track recorder using quarter-inch tape and ten-and-a-half-inch reels. Set up with multiple microphones stands, grand piano, and drum kit, the ‘live’ room buzzed with several musicians.

  I pressed my face to the separating glass, searching for one particular hunk with dirty blonde hair and a recognizable swagger. He wasn’t there. “There’s a press next door,” I told Starr. “They can record a song on Wednesday, release it on Thursday, and by Friday hand-deliver it to radio stations all across the Midwest.”

  His sizzling eyes glared down at me, stripping my defenses down to bare copper wire.

  “Nothing happened,” I said, punctuating each word.

  “Agreed, Grenadine,” he said, grinning. “Nothing happened.”

  A musician entered from a back room, slung an electric guitar over his shoulder, and started to play. He was a striking man with a dark-chocolate complexion, trim mustache, and hair pomaded into a high pompadour. The strings of his guitar reverberated with a distinctive style. Stepping close to the microphone, he sang a couple of bars, reworked the music with riffs, runs, and fretting, and began again with an altered lyric, a changed note, a different key.