A Pure Double Cross (6 page)

Jimmy didn't budge. I jumped into the back seat with the pomade twins and told the driver to get going. Jimmy, his .45 still trained on the FBI agent, backpedaled fast enough to jump on the Lincoln's running board as we took off. Mr. Tommygun co-operated by not cutting us to ribbons.

Our driver careened down the icy street, swung a wide slippery right on East 7
^th
and headed south. The pomade twins dragged Jimmy in through the back window. Wailing squad cars flew by on Carnegie, headed east. We stopped and waited for them to pass. Either through incompetence or complicity the Cleveland PD was doing their bit.

“Well now,” I said, leaning back with a sigh of relief, “that went okay.”

It was the leaning back that saved me.

The right rear window exploded in a burst of machine gun fire. Our driver floored it, got clipped by an oncoming bus, shook it off, got the nose of the Lincoln pointed west down Carnegie and sped off, Jimmy's nickel-plated spitting lead out the window as high caliber Tommygun rounds stitched our rear end.

The machine gun fire came from an unmarked car carrying two men in gray suits. The FBI was in hot pursuit!

I felt warmth on my cheek, scratched and saw blood on my fingers. A good amount. In fact I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Superficial cuts from busted glass I figured as I performed a five-finger inventory of the right side of my face.

Then again maybe not. Something was missing. I patted the seat cushion, felt around on the floor mat with my hands and found it. The top half of my right ear.

We barreled across the Detroit-Carnegie Bridge and down Lorain. The unmarked car peeled off. I clamped my handkerchief against my head. It soaked through. Pencil Mustache handed me his. The bleeding slowed.

We hooked a left on Fulton Road, then a quick right on a narrow street, Cesco. Half a block down we slowed at H&R Manufacturing, a squat brick building with tarred windows that looked like any other Cleveland foundry or machine shop save for the coils of barbed wire atop the chain link fence.

The front gate rolled open by remote control. A big dog barked from somewhere close. We parked the Lincoln in a detached two-car garage. The big dog ran circles around us as we hurried to the back door. His name was Hector.

The Schooler, looking natty in a gray homburg and polka dot bowtie, was waiting for us in H&R Manufacturing's front office. A card table stood against a wall. A card table that held an ice bucket, bottles of tonic, soda, Coca Cola, bonded Scotch, rye, bourbon, vodka and gin. We went there. We stayed a long time.

I only remember two things for certain. Holding up my severed upper ear to great acclaim, and Jimmy leading the assembled in a stirring rendition of his favorite song.

“When I grow up I wanna be a G-man, and go
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
A rough and tough and rugged G-man, and go
bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
”

I had done it. Despite the snafus I had done it. No one was dead, I had won the tribute of the Fulton Road Mob, kept faith with the FBI and hauled off several canvas bags filled with negotiable currency.

Things were going far too well.

I reported to FBI headquarters the following day, feeling a little the worse for wear, looking it too. A mob doctor had showed up at some point during our bacchanal and dressed and bandaged my ear. I asked him if he could reattach the missing piece. I must have.

And he said no such luck. He must have. In any event the top half of my right ear was currently residing in my top dresser drawer in Mrs. Brennan's rooming house, wrapped in gauze. A precious keepsake of my first armored car job.

A moon-faced guy stood behind the counter, rummaging through the receptionist's drawers. So to speak. He filched two pencils and looked up.

“Who are you supposed to be? Leonardo da Vinci?”

“Huh?”

“Leonardo da Vinci, you know.”

I said that I didn't.

The moon-faced guy rolled his eyes. “The guy who cut off his ear for the love of the Mona Lisa!”

There had to be a witty rejoinder to this idiotic remark but I was too busy keeping my head perfectly still to think of it. The receptionist rescued me a moment later. She escorted me through the maze of hallways to Agent Schram's office. My red badge of courage didn't win me any snappy salutes. The agents I passed all looked the other way.

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Richard Schram was waiting at his open door. Head Special Agent Chester Halladay was seated behind Agent Schram's desk. Uh oh.

“How bad is he?” I said, referring to the fallen agent disguised as an armored car guard.

“Three broken ribs,” said Halladay.

Agent Schram closed the door behind me and stood to my right, hands clasped behind his back. I stood there, stone still, a rusty knife lodged in my frontal lobes, my severed ear throbbing with every pulse beat. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

No reply. Well screw ‘em.

“If the armored car guard had done as I suggested, instead of playing his part with a wink and a smirk, shots would not have been fired!”

Schram chewed his lips raw waiting for his boss to formulate a response. Halladay consulted an incident report, found what he was looking for. “Why didn't you return fire when the mobster fired upon our agent at point blank range?”

“He was wearing a flak jacket, I knew he'd survive. Why did your agents pursue us and rake us with machine gun fire?”

Agent Halladay looked to Agent Schram.

“You wanted a convincing performance, remember?”

I forced a smile. “Well, what's a few broken ribs and a severed ear in the big scheme of things? The good news is that the Fulton Road Mob is now sold on the program and ready for more.”

Special Agent Halladay pulled a monogrammed hankie from his pocket and dabbed at his upper lip. Agent Schram kept still as a coiled snake. “And you know this from Mr. Big himself?” said Halladay.

“Indirectly,” I said. Halladay winced. Wrong answer. “I'll get to him before the next go round.”

Agent Halladay looked to Agent Schram. Agent Schram uncoiled.

“There won't be another go round. The Executive Assistant Director of Criminal Investigations in Washington has called a halt to this operation. Too dangerous.”

I struggled to keep my voice in a lower register. “Agent Halladay, Agent Schram, we've dangled the bait but we
haven't planted the hook. There is no, I repeat
no
way I can get to Mr. Big without the final heist!”

Special Agent in Charge Chester Halladay hove to his feet. Assistant Special Agent Richard Schram opened the office door.

“Stay in close contact,” said Halladay. “Report any mob plans.” He stopped to shake my hand and make meaningful eye contact. “I'll see what I can do.” Halladay shot his cuffs and left the room.

Agent Schram and I faced one another, alone at last.

“Sir I believe I did good work out there, I put myself in harm's way to defuse a bloody firefight. I don't understand why the brass would call a successful operation ‘too dangerous' when everyone involved in that operation is still in one piece.” I flicked a hand across my bandaged ear. “Mostly.”

Agent Schram jabbed his index finger into my chest. Hard. “
You're
the reason that Jimmy Streets shot our agent.”

“I don't follow.”

Schram angled his head away. “I thought you had it all figured out, Schroeder, knew all the angles, smooth operator like you.” His lips peeled back in a grotesque parody of a grin.

“Guess not.”

Schram bobbed his head side to side like a boxer. “No?”

“No sir.”

Agent Schram continued to bob and weave, regarding me from several angles. I kept my face blank as plaster.

“You told Jimmy Streets you were working for the Bureau.”

“Yes sir, I did.”

Schram looked immensely pleased with himself. “You see it now? Pieces falling into place?”

“No sir, not really.” Schram blinked several times, his eyes got milky. Christ, not this again. “The pieces are not falling into place and I have no idea what you're talking about. Sir.”

Schram didn't seem to hear me. He turned to the window above St. Clair and went there and looked out. I waited a suitable time before I let myself out.

I wandered the maze of corridors and wondered what the hell was going on. I passed the moon-faced guy headed the other way. He walked with a limp. “Leonardo!” he said.

“Hey,” I said and grabbed his arm. I nodded at the water cooler down the hall. “Buy you a drink?”

“Well, just one. I'm on duty.” His hearty guffaw tripped depth charges deep inside my skull. I closed my eyes and waited for the explosions to subside. “Rough night, eh?”

“You could say that.”

I walked to the cooler, he hobbled alongside. I introduced myself. His name was Wally. I handed him a paper cone of water.

“I'm hoping you can put me in the know. I just had a confab with Agent Schram and he seemed…distracted, kept staring off.”

“You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“Richard Schram was a reserve Colonel in the 21
^st
Infantry, called up in '44. He called the shots in the Leyte campaign, in the Philippines.” Wally knocked back his water like a double shot. “Breakneck Ridge.”

“Well, that would explain the thousand yard stare.”

Wally nodded and limped off. I fought back an impulse to return to Schram's office and tell him I understood, tell him I knew what it was like.

But I didn't really. I had seen bloody chaos on a grand scale and in grotesque detail, from bombed out cities to a headless child floating in a ditch. But I had never had to do what Richard Schram did. I never had to order 19 year old kids, kids who looked to me for fatherly reassurance, to charge up razor-back spurs into the teeth of dug-in Jap snipers and machine gun
nests. I had heard the story in some detail. A thousand GIs died taking the crest of Breakneck Ridge.

I wound my way back through the maze of corridors, down the elevator and the stone steps of the Standard Building. The arctic chill had moved east, bright winter sunlight assailed me. I closed my eyes and tried to think. What had Schram been trying to tell me? What did ‘You're the reason Jimmy shot our agent' mean? My brain was in no mood to co-operate.

I walked two blocks to Public Square. It took days.

A group of just-home GIs spilled out of Terminal Tower trailing giddy wives, parents, cousins, nieces, nephews, Aunt Fanny and Uncle Scorch. The city of Cleveland was their oyster. They would stop at the War Service Center on the Square and pay tribute to the posted list of the honored dead. They would walk over to St. John's Canteen and accept the beer and blessings of the Archdiocese of Cleveland. And they would go home.

Home to a city untouched by buzz bombs and grass cutters, home to a city whose worst post-war problem was too much money in the pockets of six-shift war workers chasing too few big ticket Christmas gifts as Fisher Body and General Electric retooled from tanks and radar to Chevys and washer dryers.

I tried to be happy for them, going home and all, sweethearts on their arms. But I was jealous as a Turk.

I took the Rapid Transit east to Shaker Heights. Nice ride, a high-class streetcar for a high-class burg. We sped past block after block of Tudor mansions with ribbon windows and arched double doors and more chimneys than a rolling mill. Just when you thought there couldn't be any more big houses, there were. And bigger. Where in the world did people get all that money?

I got off at Shaker Square. It was lined with shops selling Irish linen and Wedgwood china and Belgian chocolate. Not a Bohunk in sight. I looked around for street signs. I had an appointment to meet The Schooler at 2 p.m.

Shaker Boulevard was hard by Stouffer's Restaurant. I turned right and walked down the block to a neighborhood of apartment buildings that mimicked the Tudor and Georgian mansions nearby. They had separate addresses, the apartments in the Moreland Courts. I stood in the entryway and rang the bell for 2925. A smoky female voice on the buzz box said, “Yeah?”

I identified myself, the door buzzed open. I walked up the stairs and knocked. She took her time answering and it was worth the wait.

She had black black hair and white white skin. That was the first thing you noticed. That and the body that looked as if it had been poured, drop by drop, into her V-neck jade green Chinese silk dress. The eyes weren't bad either. Big as a cat's and the color of the Caribbean Sea.

“Henry will be here soon,” she said and wandered off.

Henry. Yeah, that fit.

I crossed the threshold and glimmed the layout. Danish modern and Art Deco. Not the dark rumpled scatter you'd
expect for an old gent like The Schooler. But then I hadn't expected a black-haired beauty with blue-green eyes. Was there a Mrs. Schooler? This the mistress in her
pied-a-terre?
The black-haired beauty returned, pushing a cocktail table on wheels.

“What're you drinking?”

“Whisky.”

“Jim or Jack?”

“They're both good company.”

She selected a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured it into a stainless steel cocktail shaker that looked like a Buck Rogers' rocket ship. She tonged in several ice cubes and added a dash of sweet vermouth. She shook it up. Perhaps a little bit longer than was absolutely necessary. She leaned down low to pour and said something I didn't hear, what with all the distractions. She said it again.

“So you're the G-man?”

“I am. What's your name?”

“Lizabeth, no
E.
”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Lizabeth poured herself a dram of Chambord and a splash of soda and sat down on a stiff S-shaped sofa. I parked my weary bones on a chair that had no arms.

“What's her name?”