She might as well have said that the bubonic plague was coming, that's how much I couldn't stand my nogoodnik, do-nothing, rotten former brother-in-law. But I promised that the check would arrive in time: I was too weary for more fighting. Besides, she hung up before I could get in any nasty words.
Another drink—a good stiff one at that—and the next thing I knew it was three in the morning and I was lying fully clothed on the couch. What the hell, I thought, and went back to sleep.
19
I woke up around 8:30 with a hangover the size of Mae West's chest and with the feeling that Busby Berkeley's dancers were practicing their high kicks inside my head. I was in no condition to go to the office. I was, in fact, in no condition to go anywhere except to the john.
A long shower, a couple of aspirins, and several cups of java helped clear some of the cobwebs and tone down the Berkeley chorines. But I still had no head or heart for the office. It was 10:00 by this time, so I figured that Dotty was there, probably mesmerized by Moby Dick's sperm output.
When she picked up the phone I said that it was Captain Ahab calling. She asked if that was some kind of a joke. Rather than deny or acknowledge it, I told her that it was her boss and that I wouldn't be in for the day, but that she should let me know at home if someone called the office. She said she wasn't clear if she should call me at my home or call me from her home after work. I patiently explained that she should call me at my home but that if I weren't at home before she left the office, she should call me this evening from her home. Then she asked what she should do if I weren't home in the evening. By this time the Berkeley dancers had returned from their coffee break and my blood pressure was somewhere high in the sky searching for Amelia Earhart.
“Dotty,” I sighed, “just call as soon as I get any call. Okay?”
“You got it, Mr. D.”
I was about to hang up when she asked if I meant that she should let me know about any calls from now on or about the call that came fifteen minutes before I called her. Because if I meant that call, there was a man with a funny sounding Polish name.
The Berkeley dancers were increasing the tempo. “What's his name, Dotty, and did he leave his number?” I yelled.
Sure enough, it was Phil and he had been calling from home. Before hanging up, I told Dotty to call me at any time if another call or calls came in. I hung up before having to go into another exhausting explanation. Then I dialed Phil's number.
“The Mazurki residence. To whom do you wish to speak?”
Once again I had reached Emily Post in drag. I told him that I wanted to speak with Phil.
“Just one moment, if you please, and I'll see if Mr. Mazurki is available.” I could hear him tell “Philip” that a gentleman was calling and wished to have words with him. “Yeah, whatta you want,” growled a voice.
“Hey, Phil, long time no see. This is Dick DeWitt returning your call.”
“Hey, Dickie boy, how ya doing?”
“Hanging in there, Phil, but I've got some problems and I thought maybe you could help me sort them out.
“I'll do my best, my friend. Shoot.”
That wasn't the most comforting choice of a word in light of what I feared from the Llama, but what could I expect from a former flatfoot?
“It's complicated,” I said. “You got time now?”
“Naw, I gotta take Louie to get a bra and panties … Hello? Hello? You still there, Dick?”
I didn't want to ask or to know about Phil's new taste in his love life. “Sure, I just had something caught in my throat. Ah … well maybe we can meet somewhere and talk about the problems.”
“Great idea. Let's have lunch today around 1:00. You remember the fish place near the river we used to frequent? What was it called? Oh yeah. 'Mackerel Mike's Fish & Bait'. It sure wasn't fancy, but the grub was decent and cheap, too. That was my favorite joint.”
“I remember it, Phil. I'll see you there this afternoon around one.” I didn't bother saying that I had read that Mackerel Mike's had been closed twice over the past year for reasons of health code violations. But fighting off a filthy fish paled before my other concerns, and I needed all the help I could get.
I fiddled around the apartment for a while, threw on some comfortable clothes, and took the bus to Mackerel Mike's. The place hadn't changed much. It needed a paint job on the outside and wholesale renovation on the inside. A closer look convinced me that it needed to be razed and let someone other than Mackerel Mike take charge of building a new establishment. Let's put it this way: the Jaded Pavilion, where the chink had been killed, looked like a five-star restaurant compared to this eyesore.
But before I could fully regret having agreed to lunch in this dive, I saw Polish Phil waving his paws at me from a table at the back of the room.
The Polack was a big guy. No, huge, I'd say, although it was quickly apparent that flab had t.k.o.'d muscle. His mug was ugly as ever, and his hair had started to gray, although I had long guessed that a good dye job had prevented the change when he was on the force. But his smile was as broad as ever and he seemed truly glad to see me.
“Hey there, Dickie, sit down and take a load off your number tens,” he said, giving me a handshake that showed flab had not conquered all.
We made small talk and ordered lunch from a waiter whose apron had once been white but which now looked as if some deranged artist had used it for a palette. Phil, whose fearlessness and appetite, unlike his honesty, were never in question, ordered a shrimp cocktail, a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder, and a plate of surf and turf. How he could eat that much for lunch I couldn't figure. How a retired cop could afford that much for lunch I didn't want to figure. As for me, I settled for a simple dish of fish and chips. We polished off our orders—we should have polished off the filthy plates on which they came as well. Phil belched and said the food was the same as he remembered. I agreed that the food hadn't changed. I didn't add that my fish tasted as if it had been caught some time when Phil had been on the force. No better were the fries, which were drenched with oil probably syphoned from a Ford that either Mackerel Mike or one of his waiters drove. But I had had worse meals. Or at least I thought I had.
We ordered coffee and got down to business. I filled him in on my troubles with both the Black Llama and Lieutenant Ashburn and his hairy-knuckled subordinates. Phil nodded from time to time that he understood and used a toothpick to mine the remainders of the meal lurking in his tobacco-stained teeth. When I finished with my tale of woe, he looked hard at me for about thirty seconds. “You got big problems, pal,” he said, and then resumed excavating the morsels of seafood. For this I had schlepped out here to the riverfront and risked my health, if not my life, eating what passed for food.
“But all's not lost. Gimme some time to think things over and see what we can do about them. Now I gotta get back and do some chores for Louie.” And with that he summoned the waiter to bring the bill, insisting that it was his treat. Polish Phil was always a sport.
I took a bus back to the office. I expected to find Dotty in a hot embrace with Moby Dick, but she was busy making up her Christmas list for gifts and cards. That reminded me that I had to get started on mine: a gift for Mom and Dotty, a few cards here and there. A pain in the ass, but aren't all holidays? No calls or visitors came in. The nice money that my chump client Uneeda Baker had given me for the Mona Tuvachevsky-Smith case was fast disappearing. So, I feared, was my life as a free, white, and considerably more than twenty-one-year-old man. Yeah, let's hear it for the holidays. I said an early “so long” to Dotty and left the office around 3:30.
I grabbed some shut-eye at home, fixed some leftovers for supper, and, deciding to look on the bright side of things, headed for The Slippery
Elbow. Quiet night there. Asked Gus the bartender for a Jack Daniel's and sat there thinking gloomy thoughts. Gardenia Gertie came over and threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. Swell, I thought, now I'm going to get a disease on top of everything else. On my way to
the gent's room, I saw Hyman the Hebe sitting in a corner by himself and looking as if he had lost his last bagel. Chatted for a few minutes and learned that the feds were investigating him for some alleged fancy accounting maneuvers. On top of that his wife, Yetta, had found out about his girlfriend. I guessed the poor schnook was not going to have a good Hanukkah. After the men's room, I headed home.
I hoped a good night's sleep would help. Instead, I woke screaming from a dream where Polish Phil, wearing bra and panties, was chasing me down a street. I turned the corner to escape but ran into the Llama, the Assburn, O'Meara and Bruttafaccia, all four of whom drew their guns and began firing at me. Happy holidays to one and all.
20
A raw December wind was nipping at me as I headed downtown to the office. No snow, fortunately, but I was toting my galoshes just in case. Mom had always warned me that wet feet were the devil's companion. I still hadn't figured out what that meant, but I had enough trouble on my hands. So, too, apparently did the city. A glimpse at the newspaper headlines at a corner stand informed me that violent crimes were on the rise. I wondered if I would soon be contributing to the statistics.
Too tired to walk the eight flights to my office, I waited for the elevator.
“Morning, Mr. DeWitt. Howzit goin'?”
Nine-thirty and Joe was smashed already. His breath smelled like a combo dinner of sour pickles and marinated herring.
“Fine, Joe,” I said, edging back into the recesses of the lift.
“Have a good one, Mr. DeWitt,” he said as I got off at my floor. “And, say, have a Merry Christmas, too.” Drunk or not, he was waiting for his gift.
“Mr. D, you look awful!” were Dotty's first words as I opened the door to the office.
“Yeah, I know. Didn't sleep well, but I'll be fine.”
“I hope so. You don't want to be sick for the holidays, do you?”
If Joe and Dotty don't stop reminding me of the coming festivities, I thought, I'm going to make sure that they don't live to enjoy theirs.
A cup of coffee whipped up by Dotty the dispenser of good cheer helped to improve my mood, though barely.
Half an hour later someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” I said, grabbing my .38.
He was short and slender. Beady eyes, a sharply pointed nose, and a pencil-thin black mustache dominated his tan face. He was sporting a vicuna coat, which looked new and expensive. He seemed tense and kept looking around. Maybe the holidays were also getting to him.
Have a seat, I told him, and asked him what he had on his mind. He immediately took off his hat and coat. He told me that he suspected that his wife was having an affair with a pool hall shark who was at least twenty years her junior. She was a “puta,” he said. I made a note to look up the word later. Meanwhile, I couldn't figure out his accent. It sounded familiar, but in a city this size…
Tell me, Mr., er Mr…”
He looked more nervous. “My name is John Doe,” he stammered.
Well, you needn't ask if that got my attention. Anyone with the name “Dough” was not to be dismissed. With bills coming in, I was not about to let him and his vicuna coat escape.
“I'll need some information and, of course, a photo of your wife. Then I'll get right on the case. You've come to the right place, Mr. Dough.”
At which point my mustachioed meal ticket leaped from his seat, grabbed his coat and hat, and promised that he'd return.
“Where are you going?” I asked, trying to keep a sense of alarm and cruel disappointment from my voice. But it was useless. He was out the door before I could race across the room and bar his way.
“That wasn't very nice what he did,” Dotty said.
“Just shut up, Dotty, and go back to Moby Dick.”
“Oh, I finished that last night. I've just started The Idiot, by that Russian with that Russian-sounding name. You know him.”
I said I didn't know him and refrained from asking my idiot why she was reading about his idiot.
I didn't have to wait long for the second annoying visitor, or, in this case, visitors, who burst through the door before I could reach for my rod.
“Well, well, well,” I said, “if it isn't detectives ugly and uglier. What do King Kong and Mighty Giuseppe Young want today? Looking for a few stale donuts?”
“Shut up, smartass,” O'Meara snapped. “We're here to make nice with you. Of course if you prefer,” he glanced at his sour-looking partner, “we could take you down to the station and play some Christmas tunes on your thick skull. Tony here can play a nightstick sweeter than that spade Lionel Hampton plays the vibes. Wanna go for a demonstration?”
“Okay, O'Meara. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your two pusses?”
O'Meara, whose voice usually carried from Maine to Missouri, bent down to where I was sitting and said quietly, “Get rid of the one with the big tits first.”
I was tempted to ask, but didn't, if he meant Holy Canoli. I settled for, “Why?”
“Because, dummy, my partner and I have something that you'll want to hear.”
The only thing that I could imagine wanting to hear from these two Neanderthals was that they were quitting the force or, better yet, going to Sing Sing for the next few decades. For all I knew, the Ripper and the Canoli were going to beat the living bejazzus out of me once my secretary left. Still, beggars can't be choosy, as they say, although I recall one sitting on a park bench who complained when I gave him only a nickel. I guess he learned his lesson when I took back my nickel and the other coins from his tin cup.
“Dotty,” I said, “why don't you take a little stroll around the block for the next ten or fifteen minutes?”
She looked up from her reading. “But my feet hurt, Mr. D, and what's more, I haven't found out who the idiot is in my book.”
“Dotty,” I sighed, “just go out. I promise you that at least one idiot will still be here when you get back. Besides,” I added, looking at O'Meara and Bruttafaccia, “I can detect a bad smell in here.”
“Well it's certainly not me!” Dotty exclaimed. In no time flat she grabbed her hat and coat and left, giving the door a good slam and the three of us a dirty look.
O'Meara asked where I found her and how I put up with her. She's got a great chest, he said, but the brains of a dodo. I told him that I won a raffle at the College of Hard Knockers and hard knockers were hard to come by these days.
“You got a great sense of humor, DeWitt. Hasn't he, Tony?”
“Yeah, he's a riot, John. They're gonna love him up in Attica.”
“He ain't going to Attica if he plays his cards right.” The Ripper gave me a smile like the one Roosevelt must have had when he won the last election. “You know, Diamond, we could get you for killing that chink. Right now it doesn't look too good for you. But you know, strange things have a way of happening.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Oh, I don't know.” He looked up at the ceiling and pondered for a moment. “Like maybe that chopstick and plate that have your prints all over disappearing.” He smiled the smile of corruption unleashed. “That evidence room at the Precinct is a mess. Things tend to get misplaced, don't they, Tony?”
The Canoli's mouth was full of a sticky candy bar, so he gave a grunt and a nod.
“And naturally we have some clout with Lieutenant Ashburn, who really isn't such a bad egg once you get to know him.” The Ripper gave me his biggest smile yet. “Are you getting my drift, my friend?”
I wasn't his friend and the only drift I was getting was that of two stinking coppers on the take. The air was smelling worse than before Dotty left.
“Does this drift have a price, O'Meara, or are you feeling especially generous at holiday time?”
“For you, I'm always feeling generous.” Then his gaze hardened into pure malice and contempt. “And since both the Canoli and I are in the Christmas spirit of giving but also getting, we'll square things for you for a small sum, say a C-note. Naturally that's a C-note apiece.”<
br />
I felt like pulling out my .38 and doing the world a favor. But I realized that the only favor I could do was for myself in this pitiless world we live in.
“I need some time to think about it, O'Meara.”
“Sure,” he smiled, “take your time.” Then he turned to his partner and asked how many more shopping days to Christmas.
“Not many, John, and we got a lot of shopping to do.”
O'Meara reached across the desk and yanked me up by my shirt front. “You got forty-eight hours to accept our generous offer, gumshoe. Take it or leave it.”
End of conversation. End of visit by two of the city's most corrupt. End of my semi-clean shirt, which O'Meara had soiled with his filthy paw.
I didn't know what I was going to do. I didn't want to grease the palms of these two creeps, and even if I agreed to do so, I wasn't sure my bank account would let me. Nor could I be sure that these two rats wouldn't just take the money and then do nothing and deny that they had ever made me an offer. On the other hand, I wasn't making any progress toward clearing my name. For no good reason I walked over to Dotty's desk and began leafing through her book. After several pages I concluded that the hero, Prince Mishegas, or something like that, wasn't doing too well either.
Dotty returned, still pouting. I let her pout. Serves anyone right who bothers with Russian novels.
I was ready to knock off early when the phone rang. Dotty reluctantly answered it and said it was a Phil Mazurka. I don't know if she was trying to be funny or merely being her customary self, but I was glad to hear from the Polack in any case. It turned out that he hadn't yet uncovered any useful news but he had his feelers out and was sure that something would break. I figured that it would be only my head that would break but kept that disturbing thought to myself.
“Anyway, Dickie boy, you need some cheering up and so Louie and I want you to come over for a special meal tomorrow night. Louie's just dying to meet you. Practically swooned when I described you.”
The Black Llama Caper Page 9
