by Clark Howard
“Maybe not,” Kiley allowed. “Maybe we’ll have to lean on Phil a little to find him.”
“Whoa, now,” Nick demurred at once. “Fucking with Tony is one thing, Joe; fucking with Phil is something else. People who fuck with Phil Touhy have been known to step in something very soft and very deep. Let’s think that one over, partner.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Joe. “Let’s sleep on it. Go on home.”
“I’m gonna call Stella and tell her I’m on my way,” Nick said, getting out of the car. “She’s got manicotti for me tonight. See, Joe, if you’d find yourself a good woman, you’d have somebody waiting at home for you with a nice meal ready. Come on out and meet this Arlene on Saturday night. What have you got to lose?”
“Goodnight, Nick.”
“You’re a fucking hardhead, you know that?”
“Close the car door,” Kiley said. Nick slammed it.
“Asshole,” he said, loud enough for Joe to hear him through the window. “I’m putting in for a new partner. I give up on you.”
As Bianco walked toward the phone booth to call Stella, Kiley started his car, rolled down the window on his side, and smacked a kiss at Nick as he drove by. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
“Fuck you,” he heard Nick say.
Kiley rolled the window back up, smiling.
Kiley was home twenty minutes later. He lived in an old apartment building on the near North Side, where he had been for ten years. It was an eight-flat building; he was on the bottom floor, rear, with a private entrance on the side. The landlady was a little Jewish widow named Mrs. Levine, who considered Joe Kiley her own private policeman. In the decade he had been her tenant, she had never raised his rent, and in return he was always on call to handle any complaint about other tenants who might have tried to take advantage of her; neighborhood kids who occasionally got out of hand; neighbors with unleashed dogs that came onto her property and defecated; and any number of minor problems which can seem major to a widow living alone. “That Joey Kiley, he’s like a son to me,” she periodically reminded people. Kiley indulged her and was really quite fond of Mrs. Levine. He took care of her little irritations as a matter of course, without rancor to the troublemaker; but if anyone had ever seriously harmed Mrs. Levine in any way, Kiley would have hospitalized them.
Entering his apartment, Joe stepped over the mail Mrs. Levine had slipped under his door, and turned on the light. Hanging his coat and hat on a chair back, he saw that the telephone answering machine at one end of his old couch was blinking on and off, but he ignored it as he slipped his belt off and removed the one holster he still wore; his backup piece he had forgotten and left under the front seat. Putting the gun on a table, he went past the blinking answering machine into a tiny kitchen. Probably Stella, he thought, wanting to scold him for saying he wasn’t coming over to meet Arlene on Saturday night. She would rag on him about settling down, just like Nick was always doing, and in the end he’d probably go over Saturday night and both he and Arlene would feel awkward all evening because they both knew what was going down. At the end of the evening, Arlene would promise to have Joe over for dinner sometime but never would, and Joe would promise to give her a call for a date sometime but never would. After a while, Stella would start a new search while Joe fell back into his comfortable bachelor routine of take-out food, watching the fights and the ball games on television, and drinking at the neighborhood bar when he felt like it, usually ending up in bed with one of the half dozen women who were also regulars there. They all thought he was good-looking, and liked it because he was tough as well. Joe had been to bed with each of them at one time or another over the years, and while none of them were raving beauties, they were healthy, earthy, factory women who gave as good as they got between the sheets and avoided personal commitment as conscientiously as he did. Kiley felt he had a good life; Nick and Stella just refused to accept that fact. Joe kidded Stella a lot about her matchmaking. “Find me somebody like you,” he challenged. He wasn’t certain whether she thought he was serious or not. He was.
From the freezer he took an iced mug and filled it with non-fat milk. In one long swallow, he drank half of it down, feeling its icy stream soothe and coat all the way to the duodenal ulcer he had been living with for a dozen years. Going into his little bedroom, past the rumpled bed which only got made on Saturdays when he changed the sheets, he went on to the bathroom and from a bottle in the medicine cabinet shook out his bedtime Tagamet, which would guarantee that his ulcer would let him sleep the night.
Back out at the couch, he sat and used the remote to turn on the late news, at the same time running the answering machine tape back to listen to his message. He was sipping the icy milk again when Nick’s urgent voice came on, speaking very fast.
“Joe, listen, I’m back over at the Shamrock, you won’t believe this, while I was talking to Stella that fucking Jag came out of the garage! I followed it back over here, it’s parked out back right now. The whole fucking parking area behind the joint is full—Caddy Sevilles, Lincoln Town Cars, a custom Corvette! Something big is going on here, Joe, and that punk Touhy is part of it. Get over here right away, we’ve got this fucking punk, Joey!”
For a split instant, Kiley stared straight ahead, as if not comprehending what he had heard. Then he thrust the mug aside, sloshing milk on the end table, and dashed over to where he had laid his gun. Jesus! his mind prodded like a branding iron touching him. Snatching up his coat and hat, carrying them with his gun, he rushed from the apartment.
As Nick had told him earlier, the 600-block of West Lawrence was almost completely closed down. The only light when Kiley arrived, other than the vaporous streetlights, came from the far end of the block where a package liquor store was still open. Even the Shamrock, which could have remained open until two a.m., appeared closed. Nick’s car was parked in front of the deli across from the Shamrock, near the outside pay phone Nick had been using, but Nick himself was nowhere to be seen. There were no other cars parked nearby.
Joe got out of his car and stepped into the darkened doorway of a shoe store next to the deli. While his eyes scanned the quiet street, he worked his belt in and out of trouser loops until he got both holstered guns into place. Despite the cold milk and the ulcer pill, he could feel his gut beginning to constrict, stomach acid churning. Jesus, the fucking street was dead—
Going back to his car, Joe reached in and got a flashlight, then walked briskly across to the Shamrock Club. There were no visible lights inside except for the night-light above the mirror behind the bar. No sign of any movement at all. Kiley quietly tried the side door; locked, as he expected. He made his way to the front door, finding it locked also. Out on the side-walk, he stood with his back to the building and again let his eyes scout the dark street for some sign of Nick. There was no movement, no sound.
Hurrying quietly along to the alley, Kiley stepped inside and paused there, deep in shadows, listening intently. Nothing. Just the stink of nearby garbage. Resisting the temptation to turn on the flashlight, he began edging farther inside. Nick had said there was a parking area in the rear, big enough for a dozen cars. Maybe Nick was waiting back there, staking out Tony Touhy’s Jaguar—
Moving across the alley from the side of the Shamrock, Kiley made his way to a point where he could see, by the streetlight that came barely that far into the alley, a break in the building where the Shamrock ended; there was an open area there, probably the parking spaces.
Cautiously, Joe moved back across the alley, toward the space, wondering why, if the club’s rear door was there, it didn’t have a night security light. Most bars, lounges, clubs, liquor stores had at least some kind of light above the rear door to discourage burglars. But the Shamrock Club had no light at all. Kiley wet his lips and chewed on the bottom one for a moment in thought.
When he got all the way across the alley, Joe was able to see that the parking area was indeed there: twelve spaces dead up against the back of the building, with
the club’s rear door facing the two middle ones. No cars were parked there. Kiley moved to the rear door and slowly, quietly tried the knob, half expecting to hear a burglar alarm go off. But the door was locked and he heard nothing. There was, he could now see, a bulb above the door, but it was not turned on.
For a moment he stood there, confusion mounting, mind in a quandary, feeling sweat on the back of his neck under his shirt collar, sweat in the hair just above his ears, sweat slicking the palm closed around his flash-light. What the fuck was going on here? Could he have missed Nick out on the street? Possibly—but highly unlikely that Nick would have missed him. Could Nick be inside the goddamned place? There was no light, no sound from the club, but there could be an inside room of some kind; Gloria Mendez had read from Tony Touhy’s file that there was a suspected illegal card room on the premises. But why would Nick be inside; how could he have gotten in—unless somebody let him in. And there were no signs of anyone else around.
Maybe, Joe thought, for some reason Nick was on another part of the block, on foot, reconnoitering, checking out parked cars, something. He said he had followed Tony Touhy’s Jaguar over here, but where the hell was it? Maybe the punk shook Nick off his tail, maybe—
Maybe any fucking thing.
For sure, standing there wasn’t getting him anyplace. Shifting the flash-light to his right hand, Joe wiped his sweaty left palm on the front of his shirt inside his coat. He started back for the street, following the wall of the Shamrock now, seeing the outline of several metal garbage cans setting up against the building between him and the streetlights. He wasn’t walking fast, but neither was he moving as slowly and stealthily as he had when he entered the alley. If he had been walking faster, he would have fallen when he tripped, instead of just stumbling. It was his right foot that caught on something as he passed the garbage cans. Stumbling two steps, he cursed softly: “Goddamn it—” He took two more steps then, after regaining his balance, before he stopped cold, realizing what it had been that he tripped over.
A foot.
Someone else’s, sticking out from between the garbage cans.
Retreating, feeling his blood run cold before he even knew for sure, Joe turned on the flashlight and shined its beam down on Nick Bianco.
Nick, slumped half sitting up against the Shamrock Club wall, eyes wide but sightless, the front of his shirt under another one of those sharp Valentino suits completely soaked with blood.
Nick, dead.
Five
By noon the next day, Joe Kiley looked like he had been on a five-day drunk. His eyes were red and swollen from lack of sleep—and from a modicum of crying that at odd moments he had not been able to control. It was a strange thing to be crying: He had not cried since he was a kid, except once, at his mother’s funeral; yet now, when he was alone—in the men’s room at the Shop, or in the interrogation room waiting for the next round of questions—the tears would suddenly be there before he could stop them. His red eyes, a nearly thirty-hour beard, and the early stages of sleep deprivation stupor, all simulated a massive hangover.
When Dan Parmetter arrived at the Shop early that morning, while it was still dark out, the General Assignments commander had been incensed at finding one of his detectives in an interrogation room like a common suspect. Parmetter, from the old school of up-through-the-rank cops, had escorted Joe into the offices of Internal Affairs. The commander of IA, Allan Vander, had said, “We’re not finished with him yet, Dan.”
“You’re finished with him in the interrogation room,” Parmetter said evenly. “My men don’t get questioned in the same place you question hoods.”
Vander’s deputy, Bill Somers, explained, “I just put him in there for convenience, Dan—”
“Well, I took him out for propriety,” Parmetter replied. “You can question him in here. Sit down, Joe.”
Kiley slumped in a chair and Parmetter drew another close to sit next to him. After a moment of heavy silence, Parmetter said pointedly, “Well?”
“We’re waiting for Chief Cassidy and Deputy Chief Ward. They’re on their way over,” Vander said.
Kiley turned his tired eyes to Parmetter. “Who went out to Nick’s home, Dan?”
“Father O’Neill and Katie Muldoon.”
Joe nodded. Father O’Neill was the department’s Catholic chaplain, and Katie Muldoon was a lieutenant in public affairs who functioned as an aide to both the Protestant and Catholic chaplains in grief situations. Having lost both a husband and a son in the line of duty, she was uniquely qualified for the job. Kiley was glad Katie Muldoon would be with Stella—and he was glad he did not have to be. Inside he was sick almost to the point of vomiting about Nick’s killing. It was all he could do to maintain a reasonably controlled exterior as his mind reeled with guilt and his ulcer drowned in stomach acid. He would as soon have put a pistol barrel in his mouth as face Stella Bianco just then.
Presently the office door opened and in strode Chief of Police John Cassidy and his deputy, Lester Ward. Accompanying them was Gordon Lovat, commander of the Organized Crime Bureau. After a round of good mornings, and Vander vacating his chair so Chief Cassidy could sit at the desk, Dan Parmetter asked Lovat, “What’s OCB got to do with this?”
“Your man said he and his partner were after Phil Touhy’s brother Tony,” Lovat replied. “Anything to do with Phil Touhy concerns us.”
“I authorized Commander Lovat’s presence,” Chief Cassidy said. He nodded to Vander to resume Joe’s interrogation.
“All right, Kiley,” said the IA man, “we’ve got all the details about how you and Bianco decided to conceal a lead from Homicide and try for a collar yourselves. And you have admitted that at least in your case you knew that you were violating department policy—”
Parmetter cut in, saying, “It’s done all the time, for Christ’s sake.”
“We know that, Dan,” said the chief. “We also know how zealously you protect your men, and that’s commendable. But one of your men is dead this morning. Let’s stay away from generalities and concentrate on specifics here. All right?”
“Yessir, Chief,” Parmetter said. “I just don’t want it sounding any worse for Joe than it really is.”
Cassidy nodded to Vander and he resumed, saying, “Detective Kiley, were you the only one who had any contact with Bianco relative to this matter, the only one who had any conversation with him about it?”
“Yes,” Kiley said wearily, lying. If Gloria Mendez’s name came up later, he would have to try and deal with it then. For now, he intended to cover for her if he could.
“After you split up last night, the only contact you had with Bianco was the message on your answering machine, is that correct?”
“Right, correct.”
“He said he was following Tony Touhy out of the parking garage at 3333 Lake Shore Drive?”
“Right.”
Vander said, “You wouldn’t mind if we went and got that answering machine tape, would you, Kiley?”
With a knowing glance at Dan Parmetter, Joe tossed Vander his apartment and car keys. “Have your boys search the place while they’re there, Commander. You have my permission.”
Vander reddened slightly and passed the keys to his deputy, Bill Somers, who left the office. Chief Cassidy leaned forward on the desk.
“I think we pretty much know what went down to get this situation started,” the chief said. “Joe, what’s your best guess as to what happened?”
“I’m not sure I have a best guess, sir,” Kiley replied, sitting up straighter in the chair, giving Cassidy the demeanor and tone he deserved as chief. “I think it’s safe to say that somebody made Nick; somebody must have seen him follow Tony Touhy up to the Shamrock. There was an illegal card game suspected on the premises; maybe it had a lookout. Maybe a card player who got there late saw him. It’s even possible that Nick somehow got a look at Tony Touhy’s knuckles, saw that they were bruised, and tried to take him down before I got there. Tony might have resisted and pulle
d a gun before Nick realized it—”
The chief shook his head. “Too many maybes, Joe. Too many might haves. You don’t have anything solid?”
“I wish I did, Chief.” There was agony in Joe’s eyes.
“Kiley,” said Gordon Lovat, the Organized Crime Bureau commander, “how did you and Bianco find out Tony Touhy’s address so you could follow him?”
“I think we got it from an old traffic warrant on him,” Kiley replied. Lovat’s eyebrows rose.
“You think?”
“Nick got it,” Kiley said. “What I meant was, I think that’s where he said it came from.”
“That’s odd,” Lovat said. “Everything on Phil Touhy’s family, which would include his brother Tony, is supposed to be in the restricted access files of the OCB.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Commander,” Kiley said, careful to keep his tone neutral.
“I suppose a traffic warrant could have slipped through somewhere,” Lovat admitted. “But tell me, how did you know about the suspected illegal card room on the premises?”
Kiley shrugged. “We did a little legwork in the neighborhood. The card room’s no big secret.” He and Gordon Lovat locked eyes for a moment, and it was clear to Joe that the OCB commander was measuring him, evaluating his words, trying to get a feel for whether Kiley was lying to him. Lovat was a clean-cut, conservatively dressed man not all that much older than Kiley. With degrees in Criminal Justice and Law Enforcement, he had moved up rapidly in the department, taking time off only to go to Vietnam with his reserve fighter wing and become a decorated hero. Everyone expected him to become chief someday, possibly even mayor. He had enjoyed much liaison with the FBI and other federal agencies, and was the department’s acknowledged expert in organized crime matters.
Vander, the IA man, asked, “Detective Kiley, are you willing to sign a statement admitting that you and Detective Bianco violated department policy by withholding evidence from the command officers who took over the Ronnie Lynn homicide case?”
