Dark Blonde (24 page)

Marv and the thin man pivoted slowly, their hands still raised, watching French back through the door.

When the thin guy turned, his face came around and his black eyes were snake like and sharp, just like his chin and ears and knuckles. Andresson.

Snap, snap, snap. It all fell in place, even though my nerves danced on high-voltage wires. Money from French cut four ways. The Outfit covered for French, defended by Brockway’s firm. Piles of cash paid from Whipple’s campaign to Brockway. Brockway killed, probably by French or the mob after he was of no more use. Andresson, rotten cop, partner to Burk and privy to Wilson’s strategy and Burk’s tactics, was taking payoffs from Brockway and the Outfit through French. Old story — infiltrating enemy ranks from a position of authority.

So hard to cut out the rotten apples. Wilson stood in quicksand swinging at these hoodlums. Double-crossing Andresson — undermining the hopes of good citizens, hopes that their thin blue line of justice will lead to good, big-city life, safe from crime. One criminal in a uniform puts an entire force at risk.

Snap: French had threatened Elmore with losing his head, French’s M.O. Who else had a better motive to chop up Gail Gorovoy? One of these mugs could easily have helped French dismember Gail and haul the body to the Gateswood estate.

I had only a few moments to decide what to do.

French retreated through the open door, backing out of the courtyard, his weapon still drawn against any cute ideas. Even though I owed Marv a little love tap plus interest, I knew he couldn’t run more than fifty feet without a coronary. Now that I’d made Andresson, there was no need to take him on the spot. He’d be where I could find him later, smug and unaware he’d been made. Wilson could handle that, once he got my call. From the stoop, French shouted, “Ten minutes or I’ll hunt you like dogs.”

By the time French got to the street, the apartment erupted in a lot of swearing. Marv’s old man must have been a longshoreman. The two sat there blathering while French beat it out the courtyard. I wavered. The front door stood open. For all they knew French was lurking outside, waiting to pick them off. I stepped into the shadows next to the door and fired once, creasing Marv’s neck. Another debt paid in full.

Andresson ducked into the kitchen. I ran to the street. French roared away, a block ahead by the time I kicked over the Buick’s engine.

I managed to stay on French’s tail until he turned north on Cicero, where some grandma in an El Dorado puttered along on a joyride. By the time I pulled around her, the Chevy’s taillights were laughing specks. I ran a red at Fifty-fifth doing eighty. Just through the intersection the distant taillights brightened and swerved to the right, bounced a little and went out.

Six blocks further I came up on the Chevy, crumpled into a CTA bus, t-boned. A sheared off power pole lay over the bus. Cars were backed up both ways. I backed into a driveway and parked on Cicero, then ran up to the Chevy with my .45 drawn. Gawkers craned out their windows and gathered on the sidewalks. Bus riders spilled into the street. One old lady sprawled on a grassy bank, tended by two teenagers.

The Chevy’s driver side door was torn away. No Frenchy.

From the wreck rose the sweet noxious odor of gasoline.

I clambered onto the fender. Several blocks ahead a blond head bobbed rapidly away up the sidewalk. There! One glimpse of the square shoulders. French.

From the grassy bank, a geezer stuck a bent finger and screeched that the bastard had gone thataway.

I leaped off the fender, holstered my weapon and took off after French. A stream of pedestrians milled on the sidewalk, so I stuck close to the curb, even though a quick opened door would insure my future children might never be born.

I was a block from the wreck when the night sky behind me lit up from igniting gas. Screams and hollers. I kept going.

Every now and then I caught a peek of French. He was picking them up and laying them down pretty good. I had to jog to close the distance.

When I closed to two blocks, the dark bakery and gift shops became glittery pool halls and nightspots. No Frenchy.

I didn’t think he’d made me, so he must have ducked into one of the joints.

I slowed to a trot and kept going until I was out of the business section and the street was empty. There wasn’t a soul ten blocks ahead. I turned back and went into the first bar I came to, a cramped pub with two broken down pool tables and a geriatric set without enough teeth between them to keep one dentist employed. Ma Kettle behind the bar slurred from the side of her mouth that nobody the description of French had come in before me.

I repeated the question in five other dives.

The sixth joint was a dance spot, the Blue Goose Lounge & Card Room. A Polish looking stud under a pale blue spotlight was crooning through a huge nose, keeping the crowd happy like he wanted to push Sinatra out of a job. He wasn’t bad, but he’d never make Broadway without a nose job.

The place was full of Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee look-alikes, dancing or laughing at their drinks. I looked around. French wasn’t there. I slipped to the bar and told the grizzled rail wiping glasses that a bleached blond mug had flown from a crash scene down the block and I thought he ran in here.

The bartender was a wizened old pro who reminded me of James Gleeson, the tough old bird in those old black and white films of the 30s. He kept wiping a shot glass and squinted at me with diamond hard eyes.

“You a cop?”

I flashed my wallet star too fast for him to see the “Private” in front of “Investigator.” It didn’t fool him. His eyes softened.

“My brother’s a private dick, too. Low pay, ulcers, none of them babes you see dicks get on TV. Even with the scar you look awful green to be in that racket, son. Hope you ain’t bringing trouble in here.”

“There won’t be any if I can take him by surprise,” I said. “A guy leaving the scene of an accident probably just freaked out and needs a drink. Except this bird’s armed.”

He nodded toward the back.

“Your man strolled in and ordered a double whiskey, took it in the card room. Well dressed. Not jumpy. If he’s your man he’s smooth. Cool ones can be deadly. He give you that scar?”

“No Pops. That’d be another smooth and vicious hooligan. Pushing daisies now.”

The old guy pulled a sawed-off out and came around the bar. He kept the shotgun under his apron. “Then you’ll need some help,” he said, setting his jaw.

“It’s your cabana, Pops.”

“Wait outside the cardroom entrance, son. He won’t reach for heat if he sees me go in. I’ll work around behind him and lay this cold steel against his neck. When I whistle, you come in and take over. But if he flinches, you gotta help me clean up.”

I followed the sinewy gent to the card room entrance where orange neon buzzed overhead. He pointed me to the wall and went inside. My .45 hung ready. In less than 30 seconds he whistled and I followed my Colt into a smoke-filled room filled with two dozen pairs of wide eyes glued on me, including one dark slippery pair full of hate.

Pops pressed the shotgun against French’s hairline, tipping his head down.

We led French out the back. I relieved him of his chrome cannon. Pops got some rope and made French’s wrists and ankles. We stowed French face down on the pavement. He didn’t utter a word.

The whole capture took all of two minutes.

“I’ll ring the law,” the old bartender said, “I’ll bet they know this one. He’s got a nasty look even though he’s a bit of a dandy, ain’t he?”

“Thanks for your help. There’s a long rap sheet on him,” I said.

“It’s okay you fibbed about the accident. My brother lies a lot too. Says it’s his job description, just like pickling his liver seems to be. Either way, drinks are on the house. Bring your lady by sometime. We don’t like thugs coming in.”

“No fibs, I chased him up Cicero after he killed one of his cronies. Must have hit 90 until he tangled with a CTA bus and took down a power pole. Private eyes only fib to the cops, didn’t your brother tell you that?”

The old guy laughed and wheezed at the same time, revealing a full set of perfect dentures. There wasn’t an ounce of fat or fear in him. Wisdom with moxie, what every bartender needs. If I ever make it to seventy, I could do a lot worse than be like the bartender of the Blue Goose Lounge.

After Pops called the blue uniforms I had him sit on French while I rang Wilson at home. I told him I’d collared French with a little help from a senior citizen. I also told him I knew who the mole was in his department. Wilson didn’t want me to say the name on the phone. He was on his way and would dispatch officers to the Blue Goose at once.

Pops brought me a bottle of Old Milwaukee and a fifty-cent cigar, then went back inside until the cops came. French preferred to contemplate the pavement. I told him the cops were wise to the phony fire snuff, that I had him cold for Gail’s murder. Then I rolled him onto his side and rapped him respectfully on the scalp with the butt of my .45, just to watch his eyes dart.

“Was it worth it? You were in the clear — killing a dame, just for petty revenge. Seems a slick operator like you might have stayed missing once the cops thought you were dead. We know about Peterman doping the death certificate.”

He was tightlipped. I tapped him with a bit more respect, just to get his attention, even as I heard sirens out on Cicero Boulevard. “Smart guy, okay. Keep your trap shut, but if you don’t open it sometime you’ll get the chair sure. Even your powerful pals can’t fix things for you now. I’ll bet they’re upset they paid your surgery bills and you pull something dumb like whacking your ex-lover who testified against you. Any school kid could see motive there and suspect it wasn’t you in that fire. I figured it out over one beer.”

French spit on my shoes. It was about the only thing he could spit on from where he was lying. I kicked the source of his spit and mixed it with a little blood. I laughed, more like William Holden than Richard Widmark, something he didn’t seem to care for much.

When a mug talks, a good grilling can usually pry something out of him. But when he doesn’t say a word, there’s not much even a dozen interrogators can do.

“Okay Frenchy, play it mum. No skin off my nose now. One thing, though. Pretty stupid to write ‘Antigone’ on Gail’s forehead, don’t you think? Stupid for a smooth operator like you, since it connects your little helper to the crime. Or was that Duque’s idea of signing his artwork?”

He blinked. A quizzical look leaked into his eyes as several uniform cops came through the door and lifted him up off the ground. They untied his hands and cuffed him, then untied his ankles. I guessed he hadn’t known about the Antigone label, which threw me off.

French twisted his face into a snarl and said: “You’re loony.” It was a start.

“Don’t know who Antigone was? It was written on Gail’s severed head.”

More surprise flashed through French’s eyes and was gone. Hate devoured anything that tried to share his expression.

“Duque was a fool,” Frenchy finally said, as the officers led him through the alley next to the club. “Said it meant revenge in Greek.”

“In a way, it does,” I called out after him. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. I might have been twisted around if he had.

The boys loaded French into the back of a patrol car just as O.W. Wilson’s limousine pulled to the curb. Wilson got out and bent down to look French over while another officer held a flashlight on French’s face.

Wilson saw me standing next to the building and strode over.

“Best you ride with me. I’ll have someone get you back to your car later.”

We soon headed toward the Loop.

Wilson leaned forward and told the uniformed officer to cruise downtown. He pressed a button next to him and a glass barrier slid up between the driver and us.

“Rough collar?”

 
“Got help from Pops behind the bar. His midget shotgun made it easier. I’m still stiff from the stakeout of Duque’s South Side nest. Chased French to where he plowed into a bus and escaped on foot into the Blue Goose.”

“What was French doing in that apartment? Who else was with him?”

“He met three others to split what looked like more than fifty grand, probably one large installment for services performed. Marv Nixon got away but will have a sore neck where I creased him. Elmore Duque didn’t. French put a very large hole in his chest over what looked like an argument about the dough.”

A gold cigarette case came from Wilson’s inside pocket and out to me. We each took one and lit up. Turkish blend of some kind, not the sort I’d smoke more than one of.

The clouds had lifted and the temperature had dropped ten degrees, but the wind off the Lake had died down and the downtown streets were quiet and dark, with sheen from a late rain.

Once we got into skyscraper country, Wilson slid his window down and looked up as we cruised the financial district. “I often come down here in the wee hours, just drive around,” he said. “I reflect on all sorts of things — what makes a city a good city or a bad place to be. How police can best add to the quality of life, how to bring in the best men for the job. Principles, thoroughness, and persistence,” he added. “Those elements make the difference. An immeasurable difference.”

“Yes sir. They do.”

“I suppose the fourth man — he the rat in our henhouse? Or is there more than one?”

“Just one that I know of. Burk’s partner, Andresson. Unless you had him undercover tagging along with French, Duque and Nixon, he’s your mole.”