by P. N. Elrod
The first floor was useless, too open, full of newspapers and people reading them. I took to the stairs. The second floor was a haven for civil War relics, but not for me. I puffed up to the third landing and was greeted with the welcome sight of rows and rows of bookshelves. Like a fish returning to water, I slipped between their ranks and found a vantage point where I could watch the avenue and the stairs.
I owed the taxi driver a medal for losing the Ford long enough for me to get to cover. Far below, its green roof cruised up and down the avenue for half an hour before they gave up and moved on. No dangerous-looking types came inside and I relaxed and retreated deep into the shelves.
First I’d get rid of the list, then I’d get out of town until things cooled off; maybe even go home for a while and rest. I could write up a detailed account and send copies to the local D.A., the Feds, the papers, anybody I could think of who might be wondering who bumped off Benny O’Hara. It might not do any good, but it was as much as I was willing to risk at the moment. Seeing a man getting shot to pieces under your nose will take the starch out of anyone’s backbone, and I never thought of myself as particularly brave. The last few hours had been so frightening I was ready to quit the papers altogether and go back to helping Dad at the store.
At the moment, though, I was getting hungry and felt that the promised hamburger was long overdue. The mind deals with the shocks, but the body goes on prosaically dealing with the basics of living.
Standing on my toes, I placed the two sheets of paper on the top of one of the shelves in the back. The aisle was clear, no one had seen me. I made a note of which section I was in, and left, knowing the goods were safe as they’d ever be.
I found a back stairway and used it to make my cautious way into the street again.
The coast looked clear, no green Fords, no hard men, but I kept pace with the thickest part of the crowds for many long blocks before relaxing enough to find a café. A small, busy place called the Blue Diamond smelled good so I went in and managed to get a table at the back. I ordered steak with everything instead of a burger, and while I ate I made notes on a napkin about what happened in my personal shorthand. I stalled over the meal, drinking coffee and having an extra dessert so as not to put off the waitress. When it was dark I left her a good tip and ventured into the streets.
Taxis cost, but walking back to the hotel was too much for my feet. Besides, I had no idea where it was, just the name of the street it was on. I gave it to the driver and hoped he’d take a straight route. It didn’t take long, he knew his business and dropped me at the right corner as far as I could tell, although it seemed different in the dark. I was still nerved up and tired, bad combination.
I kept my eyes open, but wasn’t too worried. The men who chased me couldn’t know where I was staying since Benny had been so careful. Poor Benny.
And then it was poor me.
Two of them appeared out of nowhere. They must have been watching the whole street knowing I might come back. I was practically lifted from my feet and trotted forward. The green car came up, a door was pulled open, and I was hustled inside. The whole operation didn’t take more than five or six seconds and I was being driven off to parts unknown.
The three of us staged an impromptu wrestling match in the backseat as I did my best to get out and they did their best to prevent it. Once I managed to get my hand on the door lever, but a fist hit the side of my head and another one gouged my kidneys.
“Hey, settle down back there!” the driver growled.
A few more hits and I was in no condition to continue the argument. They shoved me on the floor and kept me there facedown, their heavy feet resting with some force on my back and legs. I was dizzy from the punches and scared, and the swaying motion of the car in those claustrophobic conditions wasn’t helping.
“I’m going to be sick,” I said to the floor.
“What’d he say?”
A little louder, I repeated myself.
There was some laughter from the front seat, but the guys in back didn’t think it was so funny. The one nearest my head took off my hat, turned it upside down, and shoved it under my nose.
“You get any puke on me and I’ll pop your eyes out,” he warned.
I gulped back my gorge and tried to get air in my lungs. It was a long, tough ride, but I managed to keep my dinner down. We pulled over once and the driver got out for a few minutes, leaving the engine running. The car rocked as he squeezed back behind the wheel.
“Frank says we bring him to the boat, then you guys take a hike until he wants you again. Georgie, you take the car back to the house for me.”
“When do we get paid?”
“Tonight at the boat, as usual.”
“Come on, Fred, we been after this guy all day.”
“Then argue with Frank, I don’t pay the bills.”
Someone tied a rag over my eyes and I was hauled from the backseat with my arms fixed behind me. Two men had to hold me up since I couldn’t balance. I smelled and heard the water lapping all around and had immediate visions of Lake Michigan and cement shoes. I tried tearing loose, collected a breath-stealing gut punch, and was dragged down some steps. The next few minutes were confusing as I was tripped into something that felt alive under my feet. I lost balance again and without my arms couldn’t stop the fall. My left elbow hit something hard and so did my knees. I tried to twist to get upright, lost it all again, and my head snapped back and the hard thing caught me behind the ear. Despite the blindfold, lights flashed in my eyes before the dark closed everything down.
It felt like I’d been asleep for weeks and was only now coming out of it. Some men were talking and I was annoyed that they were holding their discussion in my private bedroom. I wanted to tell them to get the hell out, but my mouth wasn’t cooperating yet.
“On ice and intact,” a man said. I remembered his name was Fred.
“You call that intact?” was the ungrateful reply.
“He put up a fight, what can I say?”
“You boys been paid yet?”
“No, Mr. Paco.”
“Okay, here, and keep your traps shut. Get lost and forget today ever happened. Fred, you stay with me. Georgie, take the car back home.”
“Right.”
Men shuffled away. It didn’t sound like a very large room and I still had a slight feeling of movement all around, which I attributed to my half-conscious state. My head hurt and I was sick in the stomach, and the more awake I got, the more hurts made themselves known. I started remembering other things, none of them too pleasant.
“What did they do to him?” said Paco.
“He took a fall when we put him in the boat.”
“Wake him up.”
Some water was dribbled in my face. That was when I realized they’d been talking about me. I thrashed around and shot fully awake and painfully alert. I couldn’t move much, being firmly tied to a chair, but the blindfold was off, not that what I saw was very reassuring.
The large lump holding the water glass was Fred. The shorter more bullish man behind him was Paco. Neither of them looked friendly.
The room was long with a low ceiling. The walls were oddly curved. I deduced we were on a boat and a big one. That explained the movement and my bad stomach; I was a poor sailor.
“He’s awake,” said Fred. He and Paco drew back from my field of vision. My chair was in the middle of the bare floor facing a table. Leaning on the table was another man, darker and thinner than his friends. He unhitched his hip from his perch and came over to me. I heard a click and a slender, long-bladed knife appeared in one hand. The edge was so sharp it hurt to look at. I stiffened as he bent down near me.
“Take it easy, buddy,” he said, and cut the ropes. I could hardly move as they dropped away but tried flexing my limbs. Not a good idea, they went from numb to pins-and-needles pain as the blood started resuming its job.
“You want a drink?”
I managed a nod. He made a sign and Fred brou
ght me a stiff double whiskey. I would have preferred water, but took what was offered. It was good stuff and made things comfortably warm inside. My benefactor smiled at me, I’d have smiled back if he’d put the knife away. Fred took my empty glass and returned it to the built-in bar. He was looking at Paco as though waiting for a signal. Paco was looking at the third man, whose attention was on me.
“I think you know why you’re here,” he said. He had thick long lashes on his eyes, a woman’s eyes, and I didn’t like that expression in them. “Stand up.”
There was no reason not to, though I wobbled a bit and had to use the chair for support. Fred came over and pulled everything from my pockets and dumped it on the table. They went through it. I said good-bye to the thousand-dollar note. They looked at me and Fred was smirking.
“I knew the little shrimp passed him something.”
“What else did you get off him?” asked Paco.
They found the napkin my notes were scribbled on, but it wasn’t what they wanted.
“He’s a reporter,” said the third man. Fred laughed. They looked with interest at an old press pass he’d taken from my wallet and read my identification. “How long since you seen New York, Jack R. Fleming?”
“Look, I don’t know what you want, I just got off the train today—”
“Did little Galligar call you in to help him?”
“Galligar?” Probably Benny’s Chicago name. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This little guy starts talking to me in the street. He’s got some kind of crazy story right out of Black Mask that I don’t believe and says he’ll give me a thousand bucks if I can get him out of town. I figure maybe the bill is a fake and he’s trying some kind of new con game, then somebody shoots him so I took off.”
“Why don’t you tell me the story?” he said, looking at my notes.
“He just said some guys were after him because he lifted some dough from the wrong people.”
“Who’s L. L.?”
“Louie Long or Lang, I think, I don’t remember offhand.” I sank back into the chair, tired. “The initials are only for my memory, I’ll make up something later.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m a reporter, but I also write fiction. A real-life experience like that is too good to waste. I was thinking to do the whole thing up as a story and sell it to one of the detective magazines, maybe even make a book out of it. If I had to live on a reporter’s pay I’d starve to death, so I write stories as well.”
They stared at me. For a few seconds I thought they believed it, then Paco burst into laughter. The other two joined him and my hopes sank.
They next made me strip and I swayed for several minutes wearing nothing but gooseflesh while they went through my clothes. Piece by piece they tossed everything back, even my wallet and papers, except for the large bill, which remained on the table.
“I know he had it, Mr. Morelli,” said Fred, using the man’s name for the first time. He didn’t seem annoyed at the slip, which disturbed me. I’d heard the name before and something of the man who owned it, but saw no advantage in letting them know that, figuring my best chance with them was to pretend ignorance. “The other boys with me will tell you that, too.”
“Was he in your sight the whole time?”
“Well, no, but we were right with him and we got him—”
“Put a lid on it, Fred,” said Paco. “You lost him long enough for him to stash it somewhere.”
“Hide what?” I tried to sound frustrated and angry. It was easy.
“The list.”
“What list?”
“The one Galligar slipped you.”
“All he gave me was a cock-and-bull story and that money and then someone shoots him. I figure they’d shoot me, too, so I ran. Take the money, I don’t want it, just let me go.”
Morelli interrupted Paco’s reply. “All right, Fleming, we will be happy to let you go and you can keep the money. I’ll even give you another thousand for all the trouble we put you through. You tell us where you put the list and you can go.”
“I don’t have any list!”
“I believe you. Just tell us where it is.”
“I don’t know.”
He sighed. “Then we may have a problem.”
No problem for him, he just stepped back to give Fred enough room to swing. I tried to fight back and fight dirty, but he was too big, too experienced, and too fast. We broke some things up bashing around the cabin, but no one minded since I was the one falling over the stuff. I moved for the door, but he anticipated it, grabbed me from behind, whirled me around, and laid into my stomach. He stood back to catch his breath and I slid to the floor, unable to move. After a minute he hauled me up and dumped me into the chair.
Morelli bent down to my field of view. “You feel like talking yet?”
I couldn’t answer right away, in fact there was only one thing I felt like doing at the moment. He saw it coming, said “Oh, shit!” and backed hastily out of the way. I had just enough strength to lean over the chair arm before giving up the steak dinner and the double whiskey onto his deck.
None of them thought it was particularly funny. I did, but wasn’t laughing. I just hung over the chair arm and tried not to look at the stuff. The acid smell filled the room and drove out Morelli and Paco. They made Fred clean it up, having decided he was to blame. He wasn’t a happy man and cursed the whole time, most of his more colorful abuse aimed at me.
When Fred finished he dragged me out on the deck. There were lights way in the distance, too far for me to swim in my condition, not that he gave me the chance to go overboard. He shoved me against a rail and bent me double so I was well over the water. With a heavy arm around my neck he pried open my mouth and stuck a finger inside and nearly down my throat. I bucked against this, choking until he pulled it out, and then I retched into the black water. He did this twice more until he was certain I was cleaned out, then let me drop on the deck.
Utterly exhausted and panting like a dog, I hated Fred more than I ever thought possible. If I had a weapon or the strength, I would have cheerfully killed him.
I never had the chance, he took me down below.
Morelli and Paco were there, Morelli with one hip resting on the table much as I’d first seen him. Paco was sipping a beer next to the bar. Fred practically carried me to the chair and dumped me in it. Except for a faint tang in the air, there was no sign of what had happened.
“You don’t look so good, Fleming,” said Morelli. He still had the knife out. He used it to slice the tip from a cigar and spent a minute lighting it properly. He blew the smoke in my direction. “Now, do you want to talk, or do you want to let Fred hit you some more?”
I didn’t want either, so I kept quiet. Fred hit me some more. He stopped occasionally to catch his breath and Morelli would ask me his question, get no answer, and then Fred started all over again. I harbored some hope that he’d get tired and go away but when he did Paco took over—and he had brass knuckles.
They came as a bad surprise. Just when I thought it was impossible to hurt more he jabbed them hard into my ribs. The first time it happened I cried out and that encouraged him. He was still fresh, slightly boozed, and enjoying himself. I fell out of the chair and he kicked me until Fred put me back again. They were careful with me. They left my face alone, it’d be hard to talk through a swollen, battered mouth, and they wanted me to talk. I knew if I did and they got the list I’d die. It was a very simple conclusion, even in my present state I could grasp that. I kept quiet and let them hit me. I wanted to live that much. After a while I stopped reacting to the punches and Morelli told him to lay off. Good old Morelli, my friend, I thought before I stopped being awake.
They took a break, had a meal, and started again. The cabin got like an oven and the air was an unbreathable mixture of sweat, cigar smoke, and booze, though the windows were open. With surprise I saw clear blue sky and sunlight lancing through white clouds. It had to be an unreal
vision. Men just didn’t beat up other men on days like this; then I’d get a whiff of my own stink and know otherwise.
Morelli gave me some water at one point, my tongue felt like it was someone else’s property. “You can save yourself a lot of grief, Fleming. Just tell me where you put it.”
I must have been feverish. I heard someone laugh a little and say: “Where the sun don’t shine.”
He threw the rest of the water in my face. It felt good until I passed out again, which felt better.
I woke up. Something sharp in the air was burning my nostrils. I shook my head away but it followed. They’d turned up smelling salts from somewhere and were using them to keep me awake. It was necessary at this point, I kept conking out on them.
“Never mind that,” Morelli said when my eyes finally opened. He had more water and gave it to me. It tasted odd, but I drank without thinking.
They left me alone and I started to drift away from the pain, never quite made it, whatever was in the water wouldn’t let me. My heart started pounding hard and fresh sweat broke out all over, I felt breathless. The hurt numbed by a few hours’ rest began anew. To my humiliation, tears began flooding down my face. Fred and Paco found it very funny. Morelli just sat and smoked another cigar, letting them do all the work.
By mid-afternoon they took a break.
“I don’t think he knows,” said Paco, drinking another beer.
“Don’t be a sap. He knows, but he won’t talk. If he didn’t know he’d be making up another story about it or telling us he doesn’t know. But this guy don’t talk at all. He knows.”
Fred yawned. “I gotta sleep,” he said to no one in particular. He went out.
“Maybe we should go back and get Gordy,” said Paco. “He’s good at this stuff.”
