The Green-Eyed Dick
Page 29
On the other side of the door, the stunned silence became a wall of terror. Everyone bellowed at once. A ballpeen hammer pounded the door panel. I cowered on the floor, hands over head. Wood splintered. Hinges groaned. The doorjamb protested. The door refused to give.
Another shot rang out, immediately followed by an explosion, a whoosh of air, and glass shards scattering in all directions. Shirley yelped, swore, and coughed from noxious fumes. She had killed my 17” console TV, a present from Daddy last Christmas. I could have forgiven her for trying to kill me, but I would never forgive her for this.
The voices stopped all at once. Bulky bodies hit the deck. One voice intoned my name, low and caterwauling. The owner of the voice hadn’t cowered. His shoulder continued to pound the door. Relentlessly. Obstinately. Maddeningly. Another shoulder joined his, the rhythm syncopating in grating oneness, two minds with a single purpose.
A swift-moving outline blocked out window light. Just as quickly, the shadow disappeared. I scrambled for cover, crawling on hands and knees. A pair of innocent green eyes blinked in my direction. Kitty hissed. I cut my eyes rearward. Shirley was two-fisting her pistol. She drew a bead. I swung out my arm and squeezed off my last remaining shot.
Her gun answered ... and wildly missed. The Venetian blinds zinged. The window shattered. “Fucking bitch!” Something heavy and metallic clunked onto the floor. The .38.
Blood slathering her hand, Shirley dropped to her knees and searched for the gun. In a blind frenzy, she pushed the pistol farther away. It glided under the sofa and stopped short of Kitty. The cat guarded it with her life, hissing and snapping. One bullet was left in the chamber. If Shirley got her hand on the gun, someone would die, and it would probably be me. She edged closer, on her elbows, groaning with strain, dodging Kitty’s needle teeth, and coaxing the revolver nearer.
I closed the distance separating us and gripped her foot. She kicked out. The heel of her shoe walloped me in the chin. My head snapped up. My teeth clacked together. My body went splat. The room spun. I was swimming against the tide, tasting blood, and watching her through waves of nausea.
The door broke open, taking the jamb and security chain with it. A rush of boots, stout men, and blinding light stampeded inside.
With a forceful grunt, Shirley smacked a bloody palm on cold blue steel and closed her fingers around the grip. She twisted around. Pulled back her lips. And snarled. A grotesque mask of blood, flesh, and exposed bone sneered at me. Sparkling glass splinters from the exploded cathode ray tube pitted her face from brow to chest. She curled her index finger over the trigger, braced an elbow on the floor, and aimed pointblank between my eyes.
The toe of a boot punted the gun away. It snapped into the air, crashed back down, spun like a top across the hardwood floor, and skidded against the record player stand. The power kick-started. A platter dropped onto the turntable. Come On-a My House by Rosemary Clooney began to play.
Shirley squinted peevishly at Pennyroyal. She yapped when he yanked her to her feet. Uniformed cops took her into custody. With a dignified air, she went quietly along. The woman would take that dignity with her all the way to the electric chair.
My grip on the Remington was so tight my fingers ached. I glanced up at Pennyroyal. “Never did that before.”
Massaging his right arm, he lowered himself onto his haunches. “Shoot someone?”
“Missed.”
He palmed the derringer and slipped it into his pocket.
Starr entered my field of vision. He was leaning against the broken doorjamb and rubbing his left arm. On his way out, Pennyroyal slapped him on his good arm, a gesture of gratitude. They shook. And we were alone.
“You were supposed to get that jaw taken care of,” I said to Starr.
“Yeah, well, had something to do first.”
“Like?”
“Convinced the Li sisters to put on their glasses.” He reached down. Took my hand. Levered me into a standing position. Looked me over with concern. Wiped blood from my chin using one of his handy handkerchiefs. Brushed plaster dust from my hair. And asked a casual question. “What did you do to your hair?”
I self-consciously touched it. It was still damp. The natural waviness took its own direction. “It’s the new me.”
“Other than your hair, you look like shit.”
“You don’t look much better.”
He chortled from the back of his throat, and his fedora floated gently to the floor.
Chapter 44
I DROPPED CHANGE into Spiffy’s trumpet case. “Hey, Miss Iris. How’re you doing this fine evening?”
“Detect any Chanel No. 5, Spiffy?”
“Not tonight. But I did get a whiff of Old Spice.”
The revolving door delivered me into the lobby. The doorman tipped his hat. “Evening, Miss Grenadine. Per your request, Mr. Kane sent a magnum of our best champagne to room 2201.”
The elevator operator held the door open for me.
When I arrived at room 2201, I hesitated before twisting the doorknob.
An ice bucket and an open magnum of chilled champagne sat on a room service cart. Dishes held wedges of Guyerre cheese, caviar, and fresh strawberries. A vase holding two dozen red roses weighed down the evening edition of the Chicago Daily Standard. The above-the-fold front-page story was written by an up-and-comer going by the name of Iris Grenadine.
The shower was running. Steam poured out from the bathroom. A male voice was singing, the tremolo off-key but the exuberance and reverberating echo more than making up for its lack of flair. The water snapped off. The bather ripped a bath towel off the rod.
I poured two glasses of bubbly and plopped two strawberries into each flute. I walked my glass over to the bed, kicked off my shoes, and stretched out.
Tying a towel around his waist, Starr came out of the bathroom.
I indicated the roses. “Those must have set you back a pretty penny.”
“Compliments of my client.”
“The mayor?”
“Let’s just say someone who’s extremely grateful.”
“Should’ve have sent them to my editor. Better yet, the general.”
“Roses might have given them the wrong idea.”
“Then a box of cigars.”
“Next time.”
His chest still glistening with moisture. His hair was flat and dripping. His face was shaved to pinkness. He gingerly lowered himself onto the other side of the bed, grunting as he went. His backside was raw with road burn. A nasty bruise marked the right side of his ribcage, purplish in the middle, apple green at the edges. He favored the same side, finding it difficult to move with any sort of agility. His jaw was discolored and livid. He still spoke with a tight mouth and a sluggish tongue. “I think we make a pretty good team, you and me.”
“You’re a private dick. I’m an ink scribbler.”
“An ink scribbler who’s been put through a meat grinder.”
“Maybe you haven’t heard, Starr, but this is 1955. Women can take care of themselves.”
“So you keep telling me.”
After setting the champagne aside, I reached over and stroked the side of his face. He gritted his teeth with pain. “Want me to kiss the boo-boo?” I asked.
He gave me a slow-burning look, his mouth set and his eyes intense.
I lowered my hand, drifting my fingers along his torso until they tickled his waist. With a flick, I unrolled him from the towel. He flipped on top of me, his chest pressing against mine. He stared into my eyes, his expression feverish, his lips quavering, his green eyes shining. I ran my hand through his damp hair.
He smiled. “Then came each actor on his ass.”
I responded. “For the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.”
“God ye good morrow, gentlemen.” And he smothered my giggles with a kiss.
«»
THE END
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Book Notes
Elvis Presley never visited Chicago during the summer of 1955. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have been in a DC-7 but in a ’54 pink Cadillac convertible purchased in March of that year. For three months, Elvis and the Blue Moon Boys (Scotty Moore, Bill Black, and D.J. Fontana) toured the South before the car went up in smoke somewhere between Hope and Texarkana, Arkansas.
Sam Phillips, the founder of Sun Records, recorded Elvis’s first bona fide hit. Phillips enjoyed a long-standing relationship with Len and Phil Chess until they had a falling out a few years earlier. If their relationship had still been a strong one, Phillips might very well have sold Elvis’s contract to the Chess brothers. So maybe, just maybe, in my wildest imaginings, Elvis really did fly into Chicago and audition for Phil and Leonard Chess.
In July 1955, Elvis hit the charts with Baby Let’s Play House, which reached #10 on Billboard’s Country & Western Charts. In November, RCA Victor purchased Elvis’s contract from Sun Records. By January of 1956, Heartbreak Hotel reached #1 on the charts.
Elvis probably didn’t meet Ella Fitzgerald until 1956, when she appeared as a guest on CBS’s The Dorsey Brothers Stage Show. Elvis and the Blue Moon Boys made their third guest appearance on that show, performing Blue Suede Shoes and Heartbreak Hotel.
On a vacation trip to Chicago in 1955, a young singer and guitar player from St. Louis met Muddy Waters, who encouraged him to drop by Chess Records. Chuck Berry auditioned with his song Ida Red. Leonard and Phil liked the song but suggested a name change—to Maybellene. The record became Chuck’s first hit. He went on to record many more hits for the Chess brothers, including Roll Over Beethoven and Johnny B. Goode.
The inauguration of O’Hare International Airport took place on October 29, 1955. An air show expected to attract a crowd of over 100,000 was cancelled due to rainy weather. Only a smattering of observers showed up to witness the first international passenger flight to depart O’Hare: TWA Flight 94 bound for Paris.
The Bloody Maxwell Police Station still exists and currently houses the police headquarters for the University of Illinois Chicago. The building was also featured as the police station in the Hill Street Blues TV series.
All other characters and events are fictitious.
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