Kim smiled, making Eddy relax a little. “Sounds good, Paddy, but what’s in it for you?”
“Plenty of time to talk about that when we’re out of Chicago and you are safe. Sound fair?”
Eddy nodded. “Okay, we’re in your hands.”
Kim’s relief was evident. Paddy opened a cupboard and took out some blankets and pillows, then pulled out two camp beds from under the old squared circle. They were probably as old as Paddy.
“You’ll need these tonight. It gets cold in here, friend.”
Eddy passed Kim a blanket. “So when can we leave?”
“Tomorrow night, after the show.”
Eddy looked up. “What Show?”
Paddy laughed. “I’m holding a local fight here tomorrow, last one before we head west to Liberty City, then San Francisco, my old hometown.” Paddy’s eyes settled on the trace of red on Eddy’s clothes. “Let’s have a look at that leg. I can help patch it up.”
After Paddy had left to confirm a few last minute arrangements for the show and their hopeful departure, Kim said, “Do you trust him, Eddy?”
He took her in his tired arms and nodded, trying to convince both Kim and himself that they’d both be okay. Eddy planted a firm kiss on her luscious pink lips and for those few seconds, nothing else mattered.
“I do too. He seems nice,” she said.
Eddy woke after a few hours’ sleep’ leaving the semi-naked Kim to sleep on. He covered up her ample but pert breasts and watched over her.
He’d thought about saying “sod it,” and giving the money back. Meeting Kim felt like he’d already got the best prize. Did he really need more? Yet he had made a promise to give her more.
The sweet girl he had met in the hut was innocent, scared and naïve. But like most innocent young things in this blasted city, she had a dark side. Kim had been seductively dynamite, making him forget about the cold and damp in the Gym. She’d shown him things that he could have only imagined. Made him experience sensations he couldn’t have dreamed off. She‘d had a rough couple of days. Shot at and kidnapped yet was still smiling. San Francisco was a long way away. Eddy hoped he had rid them of everyone who knew of the money.
The old Gym had smells of nostalgia. It started filling up early in the morning. The air was full of the sound of leather on leather, mixed with the smell of dreams, sweat, determination, and hard work. Eddy had to admit it was quite intoxicating. Looking around he was pleasantly surprised. The old gym held so many people; the storm of activity had one thing at its centre—Paddy.
Eddy wondered if the Irishman had even left last night. He was up and about at dawn, handing Eddy a new tracksuit so he would, at least, look the part for the day. Kim was kept out of the action, away from the sea of male ego and tide of testosterone. Yet in the small cramped back office, she could be heard hammering out Paddy’s accounts on an old typewriter, her broken, bandaged little fingers failing to slow her down. She didn’t mind. She loved talking to Paddy.
It helped to take her mind off everything. She’d even stopped secretly crying for her lost love. She was becoming a new woman. A dame Eddy would do anything for.
Paddy suggested Eddy do some light sparring. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea but thought what the hell. His thigh felt a lot better. Eddy filled his time sparring and hitting the old sandbag. He found it an odd change when a few of the gyms resident cut-men commented that he was almost a natural. Almost was a start. If they could see it, all he had to do was believe it. After a day of sparring, even Eddy had to admit he was getting there. It helped that Kim popped her head around the door on occasion with a loving smile. It was a great comfort, pushing him to try harder.
* * *
The evening of the show came and a large crowd filled the small hall where Paddy was staging the fights. The old hall lights went down. Paddy and the suited announcer entered the ring, with the announcer calling the crowd to order through a megaphone.
“Ladies and gentleman, welcome. We are proud to present a light middleweight bout. The winner of the ‘O Neal Belt Cruiser Weight’ will not only get the belt, but thanks to our friends from the Drummond family, the Central City champion will receive five hundred dollars in prize money. So settle back and enjoy. Bets are being taken, so please see the amazingly beautiful broads at the ringside with your hard-earned green!” The announcer waved his hand towards the betting tables. The ringside eye candy was drawing the punters in from all corners of the old Gym.
“Now, let me introduce tonight’s first fight. It's local combatants, the Southpaw Shotgun from North Castle… Jackie Queen, and Steve Drisco from Haverton. Straight after that, we have a debut match between Eddy Kovakx from Liberty City and the O’Neal club favorite Brian Banner.”
The Show had begun and the excitement was at fever pitch. Eddy checked out the sea of people in the hall. Fishing for anything or anyone that might give him a clue. There might be a shooter lurking, or worse, a G-Man with a black-and-white outside, engine running. At last, the doors closed. The David and Goliath style fight got under way, experience over fresh meat. He didn’t expect it to last long. He was cannon fodder. But if anyone was looking for him this was good cover. The best place to hide was in plain sight, right under their noses.
The time came and the first fight ended with a colossus K.O by the Southpaw Shotgun. Securing a three-nothing win. The crowd settled in time for Eddy’s fight. He climbed the three small steps into the ring. No introduction. No applause, just Eddy’s racing heart for encouragement. The two pugilists squared up to each other, face-to-face. His opponent, despite being the same weight looked a lot bigger.
Ding-Ding
Eddy took a few tentative paces forward, raising his second-hand gloves for the battle. He tapped his opponent’s back as the referee took over. Then they stepped sideways, circling once, twice...
* * *
Private Eye, Jack Malone, slumped in his leather office chair. He put his feet up on the frequently disorganized desk, knocking a handful of beer bottles off. He tipped his battered hat off his eyes and opened his desk drawer, pulling out a well-used Seagram’s whiskey bottle and a small glass that had defiantly seen better days. He filled the glass to the top and scratched his unshaven face. Stretched his arms behind his head, and then picked up the malted drink, raising it to his weary lips. “Happy Birthday, Jack.” He knocked it back, poured another and repeated the action. It was better than cake.
Times had been hard for Jack, and for Malone Investigations and Bail Bonds. His business was drying up. No new cases had walked into his office in over a month, not unless you counted the bungled kidnapping of Frank Crystal by a trio of disgruntled former spouses.
Jack’s shabby, creased brown pinstriped suit and the cluttered, dusty office were a sign of the times. No work, no money not even a dame on his arm. The ex-homicide detective walked over to a cracked mirror in the corner of the room. The forty-five-year-old Central resident looked back at him. He looked old, tired. Thanks to the stress of the City, his hair showed more grey than usual. He wished he was the man he had once been, not the husk of the P.I. he was now.
He looked back at the bottle of Seagram’s. As he turned to go for a third glass, a small manila envelope slid under his door. Jack hadn’t heard footsteps or noticed anyone approaching, although the frosted glass in his office door had seen better days. He put his glass down and went to retrieve the envelope. It was light, and it wasn’t cheap paper either which meant money. The ink was good quality too, a deep blue, cartridge pen if he had to guess.
Inside was a note. Jack pulled it out then checked the envelope for anything else. He sat back down and placed the note in the middle of the desk. He looked long and hard at it, his well-trained eyes scanning every letter on the fold. He looked longingly at the note, at the whiskey bottle, and then slowly, painfully, back to the note, fighting the demons in his head as he did. The drink had cost him his job and his family, his wife Peggy and child Chloe, both left for the coast two years back
. Last Jack heard they’d boarded a ship to the land of the dragon, China. After two long years, he had a love-hate relationship with drink. He hated the bottle, but it loved him. He opened the desk drawer and slipped the bottle inside, that simple act took more effort than he thought. Taking out his gun, he placed it next to the note. Finally, he read it…
JACK, I HAVE A LITTLE JOB FOR YOU,
SOMETHING RIGHT UP YOUR ALLEY
A MANHUNT
DEAD OR ALIVE,
NO QUESTIONS ASKED.
PAYMENT AS USUAL ON PROOF OF JOB DONE
COME TO THE CLUB. WILL SPEAK MORE THEN
Any job in these post-war times could not be turned down. Heck, he had more than just the rent to find. A secretary didn’t come cheap.
The note was signed Victor Renetti, a low life enforcer at the Lost Angel jazz club. Renetti was the fixer for his boss, Big Mike, who had owned the club. Big Mike had died recently, shot in the alley behind the club by two armed thugs and then dumped in the rubbish, by the club staff the police assumed. It was ironic really, Mike turned the city over, treating everyone like rubbish. It seemed fitting him being dumped on like that. Poetic justice, the P.I thought. Rumor was some money had disappeared. Jack knew through a pal at the D.A’s office that the cops had no leads on the case, which wasn’t that much of a surprise.
Jack stared at the badly written words. Yes, the ink was posh, but his five-year-old could have done a better job. Jack tasted the whiskey in his mouth and a moment of repulsion and distaste crossed his mind. ‘Could I do this?’ He shook away the thoughts. “Yes, I can,” he said out loud. He put on his jacket and fedora, grabbed his gun from the desk, his keys from the windowsill and headed for the door. He put on his coat and stepped out into the street, turning the collar against the onslaught of rain and headed across the road. It felt good to be working again. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the flavored tobacco, then raised his hand to hail a cab.
* * *
Eddy opened his eyes and looked up at the referee, who as predicted, was counting him out. He must have taken a right cross but could not remember it; stars blurred his view. Still, it was over now, and after limping off with his masculinity in tatters, the event moved on to the main fight of the evening. The crowds roared like a lion marking his territory. Eddy slipped away to the rear office to check on Kim. She was looking at some old black and white photos of Paddy in his younger days, with his family back in Dublin. “Are you alright, Kim?”
Kim glanced up. “Yeah, honey, I’m fine. Much better than you anyway. Want me to go grab a steak for that eye?”
Eddy shrugged “Don’t worry about me, doll-face.”
Kim rubbed her eyes. “It’s late and we’re on the road early tomorrow,” she said, then let out a small yawn. “Good night, Eddy.”
“Night, Doll,” Eddy said, watching her head back to her little cot. “I’m just going to have a quick word with Paddy before I turn in.”
Paddy had tucked himself in a small side room, counting the night’s takings. The sounds of the main event filtered through the door. Paddy sat on a small stool. A pile of money lay on the table before him. He looked startled when Eddy came in and sat down, but smiled after a moment. Eddy heard the distinct click of a gun being un-cocked, under the table. “Eddy, my boy, ya can’t be too careful in this place. There’s a small pot of gold here. How’s the eye, Sonny? You took quite a hammering there.”
“I’m fine,” Eddy said. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“Ah, yes,” Paddy said as he rose. “We leave at six sharp. The fighters are taking the train. You and the little lady are coming with me in the truck. We’ll get there ahead of them. Got one more fight to go, then you and the little lady can be in the wind if you want.” Eddy just nodded
PART Three
The taxi pulled up at the Lost Angel Club. Jack paid the driver and then looked up. He had to admit the place was hitting all the right notes. He headed up the black and white marble steps to the stained-glass doors. A vulgar Venus was etched in the glass, and a white stone naked angel stood on either side. They were a little gaudy but at the same time seemed to fit the look of the place.
Jack crossed a checkerboard tiled lobby. He passed a coat checkroom where a clueless dame served patrons with little more than a smile and just a hint of cleavage, through some pine doors and into the club itself. Small round tables dotted the room with a corner stage at the far end. The room was dark and smelt of hooch and wine, red velvet drapes hung on the walls, making the room seem smaller. Everything was lit by cheap vase-like table lamps and wall uplighters. The small bar was full of barflies and even had a call girl propping up a soon-to-be sloshed Texan.
Jack made his way through the maze of tables to the bar. He sat on a high stool and scanned out the scene. Music filled the room. It came from a three-piece house jazz band of sax, double bass, and piano. Behind the long wooden bar was a thin young man with cropped black hair and a bum chin. He wore a crisp white shirt, black pants, and a black bow tie. He was in a world of his own as he polished a wine glass, staring into space. Jack shouted at him, jolting the barman back to the real world. The young man’s black greased hair shone in the bar mirrors as he placed a glass in front of Jack. “What will it be, sir?”
“Whiskey. Two of them. No ice,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Victor. You seen him?”
With his back to him, the barman pointed to a corner table then placed two whiskeys in front of him. Jack dropped the money on the bar as he stepped off the stool and made his way through the crowded club, drinks in hand.
Victor studied the private investigator as he closed in on him. He looked totally out of place in the club. Their eyes locked and Victor made a simple hand movement of welcome and pulled a fake, pained smile. “Jack, Jack. Welcome, welcome. Long time no see, my friend.”
Jack placed the drinks on the crisp white tablecloth next to a garish centrepiece. Some kind of bird, he thought. Their eyes never left each other’s. Neither trusted the other, but Jack knew how to play the game; small talk then down to business.
“Well then, Jack. What brings you to my club?”
“Your club?” The question hung in the air like a bad smell. He never got a reply. Jack removed his hat and placed it on the table. “Your note. The job? I need details. Anything you’ve got.”
Renetti smiled. “So you’re interested then?”
“If I’m the only one looking and the money’s right.”
Victor's smile grew. He downed his whiskey in one. “The job is yours, and the payment is ten thousand. I want Eddy Kovakx dead and proof of it brought here.”
Staying in the P.I job meant you eventually had to do something dirty, like become some club owner’s hired killer.
Victor ran his fat hands through his slicked back hair and smoothed his pencil moustache. “My business partners associates, found the getaway car at the bottom of a cliff a few miles outside the city, but there was no body. He’s alive and hiding.” He handed Jack a map with directions to the crash site, and the keys to a car, a British Jaguar XK 120. More flash than Jack was used to, but it was a perk when a client had connections.
As Jack went to stand, Victor grabbed his arm. “I want this sorting, Jack, and soon. The cops don’t have a clue, so you make sure it stays that way. This remains in-house, understand?”
Jack gave no reply. He gathered his hat and headed for the exit. The car was in the back alley behind the club.
Malone sat in the car and checked the glove box. He found a cigar and two hundred dollars, with a note to say it was a small token of thanks. He counted it then put it back. He studied the map. The whiskey on his lips made him wish he had downed another. This was going to be tough. There wasn’t much to go on.
Starting the engine, Jack joined the early evening traffic, heading out of Central City. Victor hadn’t discussed the stolen money but Jack knew it was the real hunt, worth a lot more than the paltry ten grand Victor was offering. Not Eddy, or anybody else, was g
oing to stand in his way.
Jack speeded out of Central City and on to country lanes. Darkness fell and the velvet night closed in around him. In the early hours of the morning, he pulled into a gas station. Daylight cracked through the sky as a new dawn beckoned. He sat in the small diner next to the gas station, reading a newspaper someone had left behind. It was full of news about the rebuilding of factories in Europe during the two years since the war ended. He ordered a breakfast of Canadian bacon, the best in his opinion, two eggs sunny side up and coffee. It was the perfect start to the case and would keep him going for the trip ahead.
Catching, the eye of the young waitress Jack thought he’d try his luck. “Hey darling, you look swell. What’s a dame like you doing here and not shining on the big screen?”
Jack’s first volley of charm didn’t help his cause. Was he that rusty at the dating game? She carried on serving coffee to a trucker near a jukebox. Downing the dregs of his coffee, he wiped his chin with his sleeve and whispered, “Have you any last wish?”
Walking back from the jukebox, the waitress whispered, “I’d like to see Paris before I die… but Philadelphia will do.”
Looking up from the table, Jack smiled. “My little Chickadee, good film doll.”
The waitress laughed, realizing the P.I had no material of his own and preferred to spout movie quotes, fired a quote back in return. “Mister, what does it mean when a man crashes out?”
Jack leaned forward, giving the dame a longing look. “Crashes out? That’s a funny question for you to ask now. You going steady, hun?” Jack asked as she wrote her number on her napkin. He’d call this Sandy when everything was sorted.
A little while later he was off again, racing into the dawn and his first clue.
It wasn’t long before he came to the lonely road with the broken stone wall. Beyond it was a steep drop. At the bottom of the cliff lay the remains of a blue Lincoln coupe. Luckily it hadn’t blown up, so finding some clues would be possible. He parked off the road and returned to the hole in the wall. Working his way along a crumbling ledge, Jack found some good solid handholds that led him down to the wreck of the car below.
The Lost Angel Page 3
