Authors: Michael Murphy
“Wise guy.” Jimmy clenched his fists. “Get up.”
“Take a powder.” Gino dismissed him with a wave.
“This don’t concern you, Gino. And get away from Jake, Bridgette, you tramp.”
I’d had enough. He could insult me because we had a history, but I couldn’t let him give Gino the business and offend a swell girl like Bridgette. I rose from my chair and gestured toward the fat man’s fly. “I have no respect for a man who walks across a place like this with his
zipper at half-mast.”
When Jimmy glanced at his fly, I socked him in the kisser, a right cross that would’ve made Blackie Doyle proud. Two jabs to his face split his lip. Blood gushed from his mouth.
Jimmy stumbled backward. Frankie tripped him, and the fat man fell against a table. Gino slammed Jimmy’s face on the table, spilling our drinks and leaving a trail of blood. He fell on his back and cracked his head on the floor, writhing in pain. Like a Florida sea turtle trying to right itself, he thrashed and pawed at the blood flowing down his face.
Frankie stood and reached behind his back. He drew a pistol and aimed it at Jimmy. The same gun I saw him stuff beneath the car’s front seat? Danny’d even frisked him. I’d underestimated Frankie. He was good.
Danny slid to a stop and yanked the beaten man to his feet.
Shaking off Danny’s grip, Jimmy wiped blood from his face with the edge of his hand. As Danny led him away, he pointed a thick index finger my way. “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch. I mean it. I’ll kill you!”
Frankie’s mouth dropped. “Whoa!” He stuffed the gun in his suit.
“Don’t sweat it. Jimmy rarely follows through on death threats.” Gino clapped me on the shoulder.
I hadn’t returned to the city to replay old times. As a detective, trouble had a way of finding me no matter how carefully I planned things, but I wasn’t a detective. I wrote mysteries, had a novel to finish, and, in spite of Gino’s reassurance, a vengeful thug wanted me dead.
“It’s like you never left, goombah.” Gino refilled my glass. “What a night. Booze, broads, and a barroom brawl.”
Chapter 2
The Lone Ranger
While Bridgette sang another jazzy number, Danny returned to our table and straightened his suit. “I gave Jimmy the bum’s rush, right on his can.” He studied my face until his lip curled in a sneer. “Now I remember you. You’re Jake, from school. You stole my bike.”
Gino chuckled. “That was a long time ago.”
“We gave it back.” I nodded toward Gino. “Besides, it was his idea.”
Danny’s face puffed up like an overripe tomato. His eyes turned into BBs as he glared at Gino. “That right?”
“I’ll buy you a new one.” Gino grabbed the scotch. He filled a glass and held it out to Danny. “I’ll throw in a bell.”
Danny tossed an empty chair against the wall and stomped off.
“Thanks a lot.” Gino downed the scotch and crushed out his cigarette. “Muscle I can trust don’t grow on trees, you know.”
I finished my drink and got up to leave. “Sorry I disturbed your guests.”
“No trouble. It happens.” Gino gave me a hug and walked Frankie and me toward the front door. “Don’t go back to Florida without stopping by. I’ll have the chef fix you a good Italian dinner.”
“You have a chef?”
“Hey, this ain’t no clip joint. If they repeal Prohibition like the scuttlebutt says, I’ll reopen The Yankee Club as an Italian restaurant with the best cook anywhere. Probably have to change the name to something Italian.”
“How about Gino’s?”
“Gino’s. Sure.”
He pulled me aside and lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to say nothin’ before, but Jimmy’s been in before talking about how he’ll take care of you if you ever show your face. Be careful while you’re in town.”
I nodded toward Frankie who smiled. “I got Frankie. Besides, I don’t plan to get into any trouble.”
“Any
more
trouble.” Gino shrugged. “Watch your back is all I’m saying.”
Outside The Yankee Club a soft evening fog had settled over the streets. Frankie surveyed the block and lit a cigarette. The glow from his match illuminated his worried brow. “It wouldn’t hurt to be careful the next few days.”
Frankie had consumed a couple more scotches than a driver should, so I suggested a walk. I checked my watch. We were two blocks from Mickey’s office, and knowing him, he’d probably be asleep on the couch.
I straightened my hat, and we headed down the sidewalk. Frankie took a deep breath and let out a retching cough. “Nothing like the air in Queens.”
“Nice move carrying a gun inside The Yankee Club. I could have sworn I saw you stuff the piece under the front seat.”
“You did.” He stuck a toothpick in his mouth. “I always carry two.”
“Where’d you learn that trick?” I stepped around the feet of a man sleeping beneath a sidewalk bench.
“I spent a couple months as a … security guard.”
Sure you did. I had to find out more about Frankie before I could trust him. “What’s with the toothpicks?”
“Edith’s been nagging me to quit smoking. Helps me cut down, you know?”
The fog thickened as we made our way down the sidewalk. Our footsteps echoed along the nearly deserted path. A dog barked in the distance, a siren wailed from a couple blocks over, and a man yelled at his wife through the open window of a nearby house. My neighborhood hadn’t changed at all. Had I?
Less than a block from Mickey’s office, Frankie and I stood on the corner and waited for the streetlight to change. A flashy young woman stepped from an apartment building wearing the fog like an overcoat draped around her shoulders. She wore a tight-fitting, low-cut satin dress in a shade of red that matched her full lips. Smoke curled from a cigarette that dangled from one hand. “Frankie? Frankie Malzone?”
Her Jean Harlow–like platinum hair shimmered beneath the streetlight. She smacked his chest with one hand. “It is you, Snuggle Pup. Whatcha doin’ this side of town?”
Snuggle pup? Frankie?
“Belle.” Frankie ran a finger around the collar of his shirt. “Long time.”
“Too long.” She kissed his cheek then gave me the once-over. “Who’s your tall, good-looking friend?”
“Jake Donovan.” He nudged me with his elbow. “You’ve probably heard of him. He’s a famous novelist.”
Belle took a drag on her cigarette and blew a puff of smoke into the fog. “Sorry. I ain’t never heard the name. I’m behind in my book reading.” She ran a hand along the lapel of my
suit. “Hey, Daddy, you’re kind of cute.”
“Hands off the merchandise, Belle. Jake here’s a regular Joe.”
“Oh and I guess I’m a regular stinker.”
“I’m just saying …”
I always felt compassion toward women when desperation drove them to work the streets. Everyone had a right to make a living. In her twenties and attractive, this doll had a well-built chassis her customers no doubt appreciated.
Belle dropped her lipstick-smeared cigarette butt in front of Frankie. “You still tied down to Edith?”
Like a dance step in a movie, Frankie crushed her cigarette. “Last time I checked.”
“Then quit checking.” She patted his cheek. “Call me when you wise up, baby. You always were my favorite.”
“Sure I was.” Frankie shot me a look and flicked his cigarette into the gutter.
Her cheek dimpled as she flashed me a playful smile. “We ain’t been properly introduced. I’m Belle. Belle Starr.”
I chuckled. “Like the Wild West outlaw who hung out with Jesse James and the Younger brothers?”
“Yeah.” Belle grinned proudly. “My kind of gal.”
Frankie let out a bark of laughter. “Your parents named you after an outlaw?”
“Naah. Before we met I heard the name in a movie. I liked it better than the one my old lady hung on me.”
Frankie scratched the side of his head. “So what’s your real name?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s Belle Starr, now clam up about it.”
I made a slight bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Starr.”
“Charmed.”
Down the block a sedan parked along the curb, its engine running. Belle squinted into the haze. “Since you two look like you’re going somewheres, I think I’ve spotted a customer. Give me a jingle sometime, Frankie.” She winked at me. “Nice meeting you.” Her shapely hips swayed as she crossed the street and disappeared into the fog.
Frankie followed me toward Mickey’s office building. “Me and Belle go way back, before Edith.”
“No need to explain.” I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re her favorite, Snuggle Pup.”
We reached the familiar four-story brownstone office building. Across the street a tin can clattered down the foggy alley next to the Reed Hotel.
Frankie drew his pistol from the back of his trousers, spun, and aimed the barrel toward the sound.
“Nice quick draw.” Would make the real Belle Starr proud.
“Like I said before, this neighborhood gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Frankie stuffed the gun behind his back. “One can’t be too careful around these parts, Mr. Donovan.”
“Jake.”
We climbed the stairs to the second floor. In the darkened corridor I inhaled the familiar odor of cigarette smoke, old carpet, and desperate lives.
We stopped in front of the familiar office with O’B
RIEN
D
ETECTIVE
A
GENCY
etched into the frosted glass door. Muffled voices came from inside.
I tried the door. Locked. I slid my hand along the top of the dusty door frame and grabbed the key.
I unlocked the door and entered the dark outer office. From a radio on the secretary’s desk came the announcer’s fervent voice: “A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty—” I clicked off the radio.
“Hi-yo, Silver.
The Lone Ranger
. I love that show.” Frankie’s gaze swept the room lit only by the dim corridor light. “No one’s home, kemo sabe.”
Mickey wouldn’t go off and leave the radio on. I flipped on a desk lamp, and the phone rang. It rang a second time. I answered, “O’Brien Detective Agency.”
No one spoke. Only shallow breathing.
“O’Brien Detective Agency.”
“Who’s this?” An unfamiliar man’s voice, but I noticed a faint Boston accent.
“Jake Donovan.” Did I detect a note of surprise in the man’s voice that Mickey hadn’t answered, or was I being overly suspicious?
The line went dead.
I hung up the receiver and opened the door to Mickey’s office. The room was dark except for when the red neon R
EED
H
OTEL
sign across the street blinked through the partially open blinds.
Mickey sat slumped over on the wooden desk. Except for his face flat against the green desk blotter, the desktop was organized as usual, a notepad beside the phone, a bottle of Canadian whiskey, an empty glass, and a brass ashtray overflowing with Lucky Strike butts.
Even in a wrinkled gray suit and in need of a shave, with his slicked-back black hair, he resembled the actor Lyle Talbot. Although not quite the ladies’ man he professed to be, my former partner was tough, resourceful, and fearless. Only Mickey knew he was the inspiration for Blackie Doyle, a fact that would no doubt surprise the fan I met on the train, Dorothy Greenwoody.
Mickey had changed the office: one desk instead of two. He wasn’t as tidy as I’d been. File folders and tattered telephone books from a dozen cities lay scattered on a corner table. A
four-bladed fan on a metal filing cabinet stirred the office air, lifting the corner of
The New York Times
scattered at Mickey’s feet.
Frankie peered over my shoulder into the room. “Maybe he’s dead.”
Dead drunk. I flipped on the light, walked to the desk, and shook Mickey’s shoulder.
The newspaper lay open to the society page. A photo of Laura caught my eye. I snatched the paper off the floor and read the caption.
Engagement?
The word leaped from the page and socked me in the gut like a Jack Dempsey punch. I slumped down in a chair in front of Mickey’s desk too stunned to get angry.
Laura stood arm in arm with some fancy Dan with a pencil-thin mustache and narrow birdlike eyes. The caption made me question everything I knew about her. How could this be? I loosened the tie around my neck and sucked in a gulp of air.
“You okay?” Frankie turned the fan toward me.
I reached across the desk and shook Mickey again.
“What … what’s going on?” Mickey sat up and nearly toppled from the chair. He braced himself and gave Frankie the once-over. “Who are you?”
“A friend of a friend.” Frankie pointed to me.
Mickey ran a hand over his face and focused bloodshot eyes. “Jake?”
I slapped the
Times
in front of him. “When did this happen?”
“Nice to see you again, too.”
“Laura’s engaged!”
Mickey reached for the bottle. “Guess I thought you knew. It’s not a secret if it’s in the papers.”
“The news didn’t reach Florida.” I crumpled the newspaper and tossed it in the corner. “You should’ve called me.”
Mickey poured a shot and gulped it down. “So you could do what?”
“I don’t know.” So I could blame myself for walking out on her.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was a slight wobble of the fan. Finally, Mickey nodded toward Frankie. “Who’s your pal?”
Frankie held out his hand to Mickey. “Frankie Malzone. If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look so good.”
Mickey shook Frankie’s hand. “I feel worse.”
Trying to keep my guts from boiling over, I walked to the window and peered through the blinds. Cars drove slowly through the fog. Headlights illuminated two people standing beside a black sedan parked in front of the hotel. A man leaned against the car. His hat hid his face from view as he negotiated with Belle Starr.
I clamped my eyes shut, picturing Laura marrying some guy I’d never met. Life had a
way of kicking my teeth in when I least expected it, like my father getting sick before I made it big.
My need to finish the novel seemed unimportant now. Writing made-up stories about a fictional detective never felt so insignificant. I faced Mickey. “You want to tell me about Laura?”
“What’s to tell?” Mickey poured himself another drink.