Dick Tracy (21 page)

Within the car, Tracy, in the driver’s seat, spoke softly into his two-way.

“Move in, men,” he said. “Take your positions.”

Even as police cars were moving in, to cordon off the area, Catchem and a small, bespectacled individual named Bug Bailey had maneuvered up the Club Ritz building’s fire escape and up onto the rooftop. Their dark topcoats blending into the night, they stood near one of several skylights; Bailey carried a heavy black satchel—it was as if he were on a trip.

Catchem knelt and began to jimmy the lock on the skylight. Soon he had knotted a rope on a pipe and began lowering Bailey down.

Then Catchem followed.

With flashlights, they made their way through the dark attic, which was directly above Caprice’s conference room; with a knowledge of the layout of the building, garnered from blueprints on record at the county recorder’s office, Catchem directed Bailey to the precise position.

The little electronics expert began unloading and setting up a series of microphones encased in a compact wooden box; these included a wire recorder as well as the most sophisticated sound devices available.

Bailey was, after all, the police sound technician who had consulted with Diet Smith’s staff in the creation of the most technologically advanced device currently in use: the two-way wrist radio.

And that device was, in fact,
literally
currently in use.

Because Sam Catchem was checking in with Dick Tracy, letting him know that he and Bailey were safely inside.

“Make it snappy, Sam,” Tracy said into his two-way.

The detective sat in the unmarked car studying the watch portion of the two-way, and the next time the second hand climbed to “twelve,” he spoke into it again: “Okay, boys—let’s go!”

The police cars pulled in closer and uniformed cops began to stream out of them, heading for the building on all sides.

One of those sides was the front door, where the grandly uniformed doorman frowned and quickly hit a concealed button.

Within the club, a loud shrill bell rang, and the clientele—among them, many of the city’s and the state’s elite—began rising in panic; silverware and plates collided, chairs scooted noisily against the floor, gasps and curses mingled in the mounting din.

Big Boy rose quickly from his table and moved to the casino room in back; like a musical director, he waved his arms as he spoke, a thick cigar between the just-as-thick fingers of his left hand.

“Take it easy, folks!” he assured them in his grating voice. “Everything’s under control!”

By way of demonstration, the gangster suavely moved two customers away from a 21 table; it revolved into the wall, and was replaced by a dining table for two. Gracious host that he was, Big Boy gestured regally to the table and the stunned, rather pleased customers sat back down.

A central roulette table disappeared under a hardwood panel that was clicked into place; atop it a pair of tuxedoed waiters quickly threw a white tablecloth and a centerpiece of artificial flowers. A wall of slot machines soon became concealed behind another wall that dropped down into place. Within a minute, the entire casino was converted to an innocent dining room.

Uniformed police began pouring into the room through the front entrance; then cops began moving in through every other doorway as well. The bluecoats were everywhere. In the confusion, the tuxedoed guards stepped away from the entrance to the second-floor stairway, as they tried to catch Big Boy’s attention, to find out what they should do.

In that confusion, the gray-haired, gray-mustached waiter with the young, round face slipped up the stairs. At the same time, in the attic two and a half stories above, Bug Bailey was about to drill a hole in the floor. He would not begin, however, until the gray-haired waiter below had signaled him with knocks on the ceiling, to confirm the precise position of a certain light fixture.

In the showroom, Big Boy had returned to his table and resumed his regal pose with his cronies. He sat watching as if disinterested, as Tracy finally shouldered his way into the club, like a general checking up on his troops, to see how they’d fared with the foe.

Every eye was on the detective as he slowly crossed the room. He would tip his hat, in mock-politeness, to various dignitaries as he made his way to Big Boy’s table: “Judge Debirb—how you are, sir? Judge Harper—it’s nice to see you out of your robes. How are you, Congressman Retfarg? My, your daughter looks lovely tonight . . .”

Of course, the blonde in the low-cut gown sitting with the congressman was probably not his daughter.

“Looks like a class reunion,” Tracy said, with a small nasty smile, positioning himself before Big Boy and his table of gruesome cronies. “Maybe we should sing ‘Hail Hail, the Gang’s All Here’?”

“This is a private club,” Big Boy said, not rising, doing his best to sound bored. “This is a private party.”

“I decided to crash it.” Tracy shrugged. “This lets me.”

He tossed a folded document on the table.

“So you got yourself a search warrant,” Big Boy said, not looking at it. “So search. But consider . . .” He lifted an advisory finger. “You’re gonna make some enemies out of some very important people. Better think twice about how
careful
you look, Dick.”

Tracy laughed shortly. “You’re sweating, Big Boy.”

Big Boy twitched a shrug. “It’s a little warm in here.”

“Maybe you ought to check the safety gauge on your furnace.”

Big Boy said nothing.

Tracy glanced around; the uniformed cops were checking the place out. In front of the bandstand, Breathless stood singing. She wore a black gown, but not the one she’d worn to his apartment earlier. Their eyes locked. For a moment he couldn’t pull away.

But he did.

“Tracy,” a uniformed cop said, “no sign of any gambling devices.”

“You’ve checked thoroughly, Cochran?”

“Yes. There’s nothing.”

Tracy sighed. He glanced toward the stairway entrance and saw the gray-haired, gray-mustached waiter slipping back into the room.

Pruneface, Texie Garcia, Flattop, and the rest were laughing, toasting each other, making cracks about Tracy under their breath. Having a great time at the detective’s expense.

“That’s it then,” Tracy told the officer. “You and Sergeant Matetsky round up the boys and head out.”

“Aren’t you gonna join us, Tracy?” Big Boy asked with an ugly grin, gesturing to the table.

Tracy looked sharply at the gangster. “Not just now. But I’ll be back.”

“Let us know in advance next time,” Big Boy said with a magnanimous wave of his Havana. “We’ll toss you a great big party.”

“The next party’s going to be for you, Big Boy,” Tracy said. “We’ll reserve you a seat of honor at the big house—a hot seat.”

Tracy and the uniformed cops left as quickly as they had come.

“Some raid,” Flattop said.

Itchy giggled nasally. “Big Boy scared ’im off—when he saw all the high-hats here, the copper knew he’d get in hot water.”

“He sure didn’t look around too close,” Big Boy said, suddenly troubled. “I don’t get it . . .”

Pruneface’s mask of merriment had dropped away; he was watching the door where Tracy went out. “I thought you were going to take care of that bum.”

“He didn’t really look around,” Big Boy said, puzzled.

“Relax, Big Boy,” Texie said. She put an arm around him, her generous bosom rubbing up against him. “He was just tryin’ to louse up your grand opening.”

Breathless continued singing, and Big Boy—and the room—responded to her soothing, sensual sound. The front of the room quieted, even as the casino in back came to loud life, and the party was again underway.

In his car, Tracy spoke into his two-way. “We’re out, Sam.”

And in the attic, Catchem prepared to ascend the rope, as Bug Bailey was settled on the floor, sitting Indian-style, attending his listening devices.

“You’re on your own, Bug,” Catchem said. “Call home if you’re in a jam.”

“That’s what I invented this for,” Bug said cheerily, holding up his wrist with its two-way.

As Tracy pulled away, he slowed as he neared the club’s garage. He reached over and swung open the door on the rider’s side.

The gray-haired, gray-mustached waiter hopped into the car, peeling off the gray hair and mustache as he did.

“How’d it go?” Tracy asked.

“The light fixture hides the microphone perfectly,” Pat Patton said. “Bug should hear—and record—plenty from there.”

“It’s a dangerous assignment.”

“We’ll have a man posted in the building across the way,” Patton said. “Anything goes wrong, Bug’s got his two-way.”

“Brave little guy,” Tracy said admiringly. He turned the corner. “Let’s hope we get away with it. You think Big Boy thinks I’m too stupid to look under a false tabletop?”

“Maybe he thinks you were afraid of getting in trouble with those judges and the other high-hats in attendance.”

“Yeah,” Tracy said. “He did mention that himself.”

“Kind of embarrassing, isn’t it?” Patton admitted. “Letting Big Boy think we’re that stupid, or that scared.”

“Yeah,” Tracy said. “It’s embarrassing.” He grinned at his assistant, who looked more than a little silly in the red waiter’s jacket. “But no more embarrassing than you in that outfit.”

Patton looked at himself and laughed, and said, “I’ll get over it.”

“So will I,” Tracy said, pointing. “There’s Sam . . . let’s give the man a lift . . .”

B
ig Boy slammed his fist down on the front page that stared up at him, taunting him, from the blood-red conference-room table; the table shook, the very room seemed to shake, and the newspaper below the fist tore and crinkled. Big Boy’s fist had landed directly on a smiling photograph of Detective Dick Tracy, seen hauling away a sullen, handcuffed Ribs Mocca.

“Everywhere I turn,” Big Boy raved, “it’s Tracy, Tracy, Tracy!”

The newspaper headline, in print of a size and boldness usually reserved for the outbreak of war (and in fact that was, in a way, what the
Tribune
was reporting), said: TRACY ATTACKS GANGLAND, with a secondary head stating: BIG BOY FEELS THE SQUEEZE. Several other papers were scattered about the table; the headline on the
Chronicle
said: TRACY’S WRECKING CREW BRINGS GAMBLERS BAD LUCK, accompanied by photographs of axe-wielding plainclothesmen smashing slot machines, overturning gambling tables, and escorting hoodlums into paddy wagons.

The
News
had focused on the arrest of Texie Garcia and the shuttering of various of her brothels. That headline read: TRACY CRACKS DOWN ON WHITE SLAVERY RING. Smaller headlines referred to the various judges, aldermen, city council members, and socially prominent citizens among the patrons of the various illicit establishments raided, gambling and prostitution alike. Tracy had graciously chosen not to arrest any of these luminaries, but did leak their names to the press.

“He invited the newshounds along!” Big Boy said. “Publicity-seeking son of a . . .”

And the room rang with invectives as obscene as they were heartfelt.

Seated at the shining red table, making a very disgruntled audience for this symphony of rage, were Pruneface and his chief bodyguard, Influence, whose mashed-looking skeletal face rivaled his boss’s in sheer hideousness. Seated across from them, watching them with hooded-eyed care, were Flattop and Itchy, their coats unbuttoned, their shoulder holsters showing.

“Consolidate, you say,” Pruneface growled. “You’re the future, you tell us. And the day after we start all this mutual planning, this ‘coordinating’ like a ‘big-time corporation’—with
you
our ‘chairman of the board’—we suffer our worst setbacks, the most damaging raids, in history!”

“It’s like that lousy dick’s readin’ my mind!” Big Boy said, and he wadded up the newspaper with Tracy’s face on it and hurled the ball into the fireplace across the room, where the paper crackled and burned.

Pruneface seemed unimpressed by Big Boy’s display of temper. “Tracy threw Ramm in the slam; he nailed Texie, too. Mocca’s in the jug, so’s DeSanto and Clipper Brown. They’ll all be out on bond by noon, but still, it’s real inconvenient. Worse, nearly every gambling joint in the city is in pieces.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Big Boy snarled. He slammed his fist on the table. Again and again.

“All this show of emotion,” Pruneface said coldly, “doesn’t hide one fact.”

“Oh, yeah? Which is
what
?”

“You
didn’t get raided last night.”

“I got raided the night before! You was there!”

“Yeah. Compared to the rest of us, your club got a free pass. You’ll be the only game in town tonight. The only casino up and running. The question being asked in certain nasty circles is, Did Big Boy sell out his competition to the cops?”

Big Boy waved his arms. “That’s crazy! Tracy’ll probably hit me tonight, which means maybe I don’t even dare open the casino—I probably oughta put the wheels and slots and such in storage.”

“Is that what’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” Big Boy shook his head. “Tracy. This one lousy cop, Tracy . . .”

Pruneface’s dark eyes were crazed and glittery in the rough-creased mask of his features. “I’ll hand you your head, if you’re playing me for a patsy. And if you got a canary singin’ in your organization, tipping Tracy off, then you better
find
that bird, and find yourself a big
cat
to feed him to. Or your grand and glorious scheme about all of us ‘businessmen’ throwing in together and goin’ national is going to blow up in your face. And it’ll make Spaldoni’s demise look like a firecracker goin’ off.”