Dark Blonde (23 page)

“When I’m patched I’ll head for the office,” he said.

“Call there first. One of us will pick you up and take you home. Rest up. I can deal with Duque later.”

I drove to the office and parked in the back alley. I checked the magazine on my Colt and counted five bullets fired. I hadn’t had time to pull the .38. Molly was coming back from lunch and I met her on the elevator. She read the concern on my face.

“Rick ate a slug in the shoulder. I dropped him at Holy Cross Hospital to get patched up.”

Molly took in a sharp breath. “What happened? You okay?” Her eyes couldn’t have been wider.

“It’s nothing, Kitten…drive by target practice. My guess is some colored boys didn’t care for two whiteys asking questions in their ghetto. Automatic weapons sprayed a hundred slugs at us from across the street. South Side ritual. They can’t aim up there.”

“Come in. I’ll stitch up those pants for you. Did you see who it was?”

“Nope. Tinted windows, big pimpmobile. Imperial. Rick was in front of me going down some stairs. We both dove but I think he got hit before he landed. I yanked off a few wild shots.”

“God, I’m glad you’re safe. Is Rick’s wound serious?”

“Doubt it. Slug passed through clean. He lost feeling in his arm. Same one he got shot in back in ’48 on that hostage case that aches when cold weather’s coming. Now it’ll probably ache when any weather’s coming. I told him to call when he was released and one of us would pick him up and get him home.”

We opened the office and hit the Jack Daniels in my bottom drawer. Molly let some light in the blinds and came over and slid in my lap with a needle and thread. She wore a slick pair of light blue slacks and a canary yellow blouse with tiny pink flowers down the front. She smelled too good to work in an office.

“Easy on the juice,” she purred. “It’s still early. And don’t you have a case to solve? I can chauffer the junior partner for you.”

“I’d just as soon get sloshed and be the senior partner in bed with you.”

“Oh, detective! You private dicks are all the same — one thing on your brain.”

“And you love it.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I’m going to break an office rule, so you’d best get ready Mister Angel.”

Molly kissed me long and sweet. Either her touch or the JD took the jitters right out of me. I don’t enjoy being in the crosshairs of automatic fire; the odds are stacked too deep. My fear and shock lasted about thirty seconds though, before morphing into irritation and anger.

I took out O.W. Wilson’s card and put in a call to his office. Molly finished her needlework and sat on my lap breathing warm concern on my neck the whole time. He wasn’t in, so I called the home number he’d given me. Molly’s eyes did things to me but I imitated a park bench. Wilson answered in three rings.

“Wilson, Angel . . . yeah . . . Me and Rick were shot up this afternoon down on 74th and Damen . . . tricked out turquoise Imperial . . . dark tinted windows . . . that’s right . . . automatics in a drive-by . . . Rick took one in the shoulder.”

Molly kissed my neck and slid off my lap to answer another phone. I asked Wilson to check out the car’s description and let me know if it’d been involved in any crime or had any connection to French. I filled him in on Duque, that I thought he was Hispanic from Omaha with no record. Wilson said the name didn’t ring a bell but he’d check the files and maybe turn something up under an alias. I gave Wilson the last address I had on Duque.

O.W. sounded like Dad, warning me in even tones not to get in over my head, advising me that if the Imperial was connected to the murders or the Outfit, these thugs had nothing to lose. I said it was most likely a pimpmobile. He urged me to use Burk, and if I got any resistance to get back to him pronto. I could understand why they called Wilson “The Professor” – if there ever was a top cop with a good bedside teaching manner it was Wilson.

I hung up and Molly blew me a kiss and fluttered her eyelashes melodramatically. “Julia Gateswood’s on line two. She sounds breathless, and would only talk to you. It could be her Marilyn act. Be careful, Pard, knockout flaxen-haired babes in peril are your weakness.” She winked, then deliciously ran her tongue in circles around her index finger. How well she knew me.

At the sound of my voice, Julia sobbed, teetering on the edge of hysteria. She’d locked herself in her upstairs bathroom when Henry brought home attendants from the North Woods Sanatorium. The line went dead right after she begged me to come and stop them. I cradled the receiver down and stared at it. My face must have been extra long, because Molly came and sat on the corner of my desk and leaned into my face to shorten it.

“Trouble?”

“Nothing I can do much about right now unless I want to confront a congressman and a bunch of burlies in white jackets.”

“Oh?”

“Henry’s having Julia committed. I think it’s bogus, but that doesn’t mean she’s the poster child for mental health. He’s trying to shut her up about something — what I’m not sure. But that might just be my protective male talking.”

“I like that protective side of you aimed my way. What’s the deal with Henry? Without an opponent in next week’s election, he sure doesn’t need a sympathy vote.”

“The man’s been hiding something, unless I’m seeing Julia as Joan of Arc.”

“You think he’s involved in Gail’s murder?”

“No, I don’t. He isn’t a murderer. That’s not it, but something is off. Anyway, his alibi’s tight for doing the chopping. If he wanted to arrange Gail’s killing, he sure wouldn’t dump the body in his guesthouse with a telegram on her forehead connecting his old class to the killing.”

Molly sat there as I broke the magazine out of my .45 and reloaded. “You’re going back down there, to the South Side, aren’t you?”

I looked up into her face, a face made for me, one I knew I’d never get tired of looking at until it hit age 100. “You’re very cute, for a karate expert, all around girl Friday, sweet little sister type and hot date.”

She winked. “Don’t forget cook, bottle washer and those great blow jobs to die for.”

I patted her on the head. I wasn’t forgetting any of it. “We’re not supposed to raise the sex issue during office hours, remember? Getting shot at might be an exception, but you’re too good at distracting me, so it’s rules, tootsie, rules. I’ve got a case to solve.”

She patted me on the head likewise and laughed. “So, then, you ARE going back down there, you muscled hunk of a daredevil man, you, you … shit-for-brains?”

“After dark, I am.”

Molly stiffened. I could always tell when she was getting angry by the way she held her spine. “You’re kidding. Why not wait for Rick or call Wilson for help?”

“That’s not the way I work. Rick ate lead so he shouldn’t even if he wanted to. You don’t think I’m going to let them plug my partner again, do you? Anyway, Wilson would send Burk or uniformed officers who’d blow the cover. I might as well carry a neon sign. This calls for one investigator. That’s what I’m good at, solo.”

She called me a few more names and her face got red. She didn’t calm down until I suggested she could help.

“What about Mrs. Breathless, Mrs. oh, please come and save me from my hubby and myself? You’re getting in way over your head Mister D’Angelo!”

“I might need your help on that one, too. But at least Julia won’t be going anywhere. Maybe they can get her off the Demerol.”

Molly calling me by my old name, the one I’d had before Dad was murdered, always told me that she was perturbed but malleable. I kissed her and told her I’d be careful. She pressed her curves against me tight.

If a man doesn’t have a certain kind of patience akin to watching paint dry without fidgeting, he shouldn’t go into investigations. A lot of cases are 90% waiting around, tedious hours for some vulture to come out of his filthy nest, waiting for burglars to break in, waiting for threats to be acted upon, waiting for nightfall, clues, suspicions to distill, police to arrive, leave — all so the dick can poke his nose into some dive where he might get it shot off. Waiting, waiting and more hanging around. The one thing I wasn’t going to do was wait for a client to pay me or wait when I knew someone was in trouble.

I had the habit of charging in when I felt someone was in danger, a habit Molly and Rick kept pointing out to me, but one I wasn’t going to change. Waiting for an angle to spring Julia was tough, because I had no idea of how much pain or trouble she was in. Henry had put her away for his own reasons. He knew her better than I did, yet instinct told me he didn’t have her best interests at heart. He had some other motive. While I didn’t think he was involved in Gail’s murder, he wore an aspect that said he wasn’t totally pure, something that made my scar tingle. Maybe he was married to his political causes and not so much to Julia. I’d have to get to the bottom of it later. First things first.

Waiting for Elmore Duque to show at his trashy courtyard apartment on Marquette for three hours in the middle of the night allowed my brain to sift through everything again, even though I was cold and stiff and needed a bath. Dad talked to me in those hours more than he ever had, giving me tips about how to overpower even three or four men by the proper use of surprise. I didn’t have any questions for him. It seemed he was limited to general warnings unless an action was imminent, so until or unless I got in a real jam, Dad’s “voice” wasn’t much help.

Some time I’d have to tell Molly about the voice, and ask her if I was bonkers or what. Rick might just give me one of his psych grad class outlines and give it all some fancy label. Molly would understand and offer a common sense appraisal.

I felt twenty years older by the time a dark Chevy pulled up in front of the Marquette Courtyard Apartments.

It was overcast and pitch black in the courtyard. Profiled against the dim light of the street, two men piled out of the Chevy and hurried past my hiding place at the corner front window to Duque’s apartment.

They stood at the door while I crouched low in the shrubbery, trying not to sneeze.

One was wide, the other about six foot and slender, carrying a gym bag and walking with the same halting limp I’d seen at the Brockway house.

The big man unlocked the door and they went inside. A light snapped on and I rose against the siding to peer inside just as the blinds snapped shut. Before they did I caught the ugly profile of my old neck thumper, big stupid Marvin the moron. My neck was still sore from that palooka’s fist and twinged to remind me of the debt I owed.

The two moved through the front room and into a dinette area off the kitchen. One of the blinds was bent, affording me a two-inch triangle of sight. Hidden by dense shrubs, I stood and scooted to the opening, peering in. Marv was leaning back against a table on a chrome-legged chair, which for his girth required some faith in the furniture manufacturer. He sucked on a Pabst, swigging nervously. The other guy stood in the kitchen doorway, his face blocked by the doorframe; one arm, his coat and a pair of black brogues sticking out.

Marv said something and laughed. He put down his beer and pulled a Luger from his belt, playing with the Kraut rod like a kid with a nasty new toy. I remembered that Henry Gateswood had said he kept a Luger as a souvenir, and wondered if it was the same weapon. Marv broke the magazine out and peeped down the chamber, then popped the magazine back in and aimed at a corner of the ceiling. A hand extended from the doorway with a chrome revolver held by the very long barrel. Marv put his Luger back inside his belt and took the revolver, a tricked out .44, not the sort of weapon you could draw and fire quickly, and not the sort you could hide easily in a jacket. It would have to be stuck down the belt, with the barrel into the pant leg.

Marv hefted the long weapon like he was checking the weight, opened the cylinder and spun it, then snapped it closed and handed it back to the man in the doorway. When the hand leaned out to take the gun, a face followed it. I caught a profile backlit by the kitchen light. A full head of blond hair, not a bird I’d seen before, and certainly not Hispanic.

A glare of headlights from the street swept into the courtyard. I froze at the ankles for a half-second, then dropped to my knees behind the bush. A car wheeled around in the middle of the street to park on the opposite side. More than stock rumbled from under the hood.

Two more men piled out of the car and jogged across and into the courtyard. They went straight in, no knock, no key, which suggested one of them might be the tenant, Duque. I had no idea what Duque looked like. The first man in, average height and weight, the other taller and thin. Both wore hats. Now it was four to one. I weighed the wisdom of backing out of the courtyard and calling Wilson, but didn’t think I could do so without being seen.

Through the blinds I made out the two latest visitors, but their backs were to me. One guy took off his hat and flipped it onto the table. His hair was black as night, slicked back.

The man in the kitchen doorway brought two more bottles of Pabst and thrust them at the newcomers. He was dressed in a gray suit and yellow shirt, open at the collar. His hair was bottle blond. His face wasn’t the face of a tough guy but not one that could be pushed around either. He had dark eyebrows over a strong brow, a wide forehead with widow’s peak. He looked quick. The skin and expression were taut, as if he’d never laughed in his life. His nose was thin, short, a woman’s nose but a bit off — he’d spent some time under the knife, his face stretched too tight. Amazing how a few nips, tucks and folds can change a man’s looks so drastically. The hair and facial changes had transformed French from a weasel to a guy who might pass for a Hollywood agent. On second thought, there’s not much difference. Let’s say a banker, just slightly removed from a weasel or a Hollywood agent.

When the slick-haired guy fisted the beer I caught his profile. Large full nose, bushy dark eyebrows and ruddy complexion. I was betting he was Duque.

Marv said something to the guy who’d tossed his hat, the guy I took for Duque. Then Marv used the name Elmore, derisively. So it was Duque. The fourth man, the guy who still wore his hat, took a long paper from his coat and unfolded it on the table. It looked like a map. All four men leaned over the table. The guy I took for French pointed at the paper and wore a serious scowl while he talked. He talked fast and low; I couldn’t make out any of it.

I weighed odds about bursting in the front: if I could’ve pressed a button and instantly appeared in the living room with my .45 drawn, I could drop three before the last man might get off a shot. But that shot would likely have my name on it. And these weren’t the sorts of birds to be unarmed. French’s cannon was bigger than Marv’s Luger, but unless he was very practiced with it, the Luger would speak first.

I thought about getting a couple of shots off through the window. I thought about waiting until they left, hoping they wouldn’t all leave at once, so I might pick off a couple. My scar began to tingle, burn. I try not to be superstitious, but my little trophy from the Russian mob down in Mattoon was becoming a regular security alarm system.

I itched to know what they were cooking up. Four mugs led by Christy French didn’t meet in the wee hours for a suds-tasting contest, or to revise Chicago’s street map.

French put the gym bag on the table and lifted out banded stacks of money, divvying it up to each mug. Payoff. But for what? Silence?

When the cash had all been divided, Duque slapped a bundle of cash down, and hammered the table. He shouted something up into French’s face. French laughed, that sadistic Richard Widmark laugh, like he’d been practicing it and thought himself pretty good at it. Then he stiffened and spit something back into Elmore’s face, about how if he didn’t like it he could lose his head, laced with F-words.

I caught about half the words. Marv stopped thumbing through his stack of bills and leaned back, wearing a dark scowl. He laid his hands out, palms down on the table. He barked something short and rough using French’s name.

French gestured and fisted his palm, talking rapidly, but not loud enough for me to hear.

The four were frozen, staring at the dough and each other. Krakatoa was about to blow.

Duque made a quick motion, his elbows moving in front of him. His shoulders dipped.

French was quicker. The long barreled cannon swung up fast.

 
Bam! Bam! Bam!

Three shots, loud enough to be heard a block away, but in that neighborhood such noises were as normal as sirens. Yeah, Frenchy’d had a few hours of practice with that big flashy piece. Elmore put a round in the floor even as he was knocked back off his heels. Fingers of smoke tickled the lamp over the table. Elmore didn’t move. He’d taken a .44 slug in the sternum and another in the shoulder. Duque was done.

Marv slumped slack-jawed, his eyes riveted on French, who leaned over and casually took back the cash that had been in front of Duque like nothing had happened, all the while still holding the chrome cannon on the other two. He did encore snippets of Widmark.

I don’t mind when crooks off each other. It would have been nice to have a front row seat to a gangland brouhaha that evened the odds down to one to one, but it didn’t look like Marv and the thin bird wanted to make Duque’s mistake and try their hands against the quick Christy French and his glitzy bazooka.

The long barrel bobbed up a couple of times. Marv stood in half crouch and slid slowly away from the table. He gingerly picked up the bundles of cash in front of him and stepped back against the wall. The barrel bobbed again and the thin guy whose back had been to me the whole time lifted his share of the pot. The barrel still pointed at Marv’s midsection while French gave a little speech, salted with more Widmark, after which French backed around them toward the front door, the gaudy chrome barrel glinting in the dim light.