Just Another Day

Howard hauled the sobbing Weasel to his feet and hustled him out. "One thing, Sam," said Mulrooney, "I don't want you going near the girl's parents unless essential. Come to me first. You've got a reputation and the mother's a nervy type. If she knew you were involved, she'd have a conniption." He shrugged a sort of apology. "Your reputation... Start at the college, why don't you?"

This hampered my style a bit but I'd go along with it for the moment.

"And if you need backup," Mulrooney continued, "you can rely on Howard. He's a good man."

"What's his story?" I asked, "He's a few cuts above most of your... er... associates."

"Ex-army, infantry captain. West Pointer would you believe. He was at the Normandy landings and the Battle of the Bulge. Took out three Panzers by himself. Won a clutch of medals including a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. MPs got him a couple of years after the war---he was dealing on the black market in Berlin. Should have been dishonourably discharged and pulled three to five in Leavenworth but because he'd been a war hero it was hushed up and he was given a medical discharge, delayed battle fatigue. Despite that, word got out somehow and he couldn't get legit work so I took him on. Anyway, you want him, just whistle."

"Don't tell me how to whistle," I said as I left, "You're nothing like Lauren Bacall." King Kong was trying to staunch the Weasel's blood and none-too-gently going by the noises the creep was making.

I pointed to the copy of Yippee! "Page twenty-six is pretty good," I told the bruiser. I didn't know if it was or not. My reading material is a little more sophisticated.

KK grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yup, guaranteed to grow hair on the palms of your hands," I said as I made for the outside.

* * * * *

Back at the office I found Henry, the janitor, scrubbing away at the floor. "Looks like blood, Mr Malone," he complained.

"Cut myself shaving," I lied.

He studied my face. "You heal fast."

"Better believe it."

He lifted up Weasel's brass knuckles to show me. "Found these in the trash."

"Oh yeah, they're my mom's. She thought she'd lost them."

"Must be a tough cookie, your mom," said Henry.

"You got it. Us kids never dared criticise her meat-loaf." I stuffed a ten-spot in his top pocket. "Just do what you can with the floor, Henry."

* * * * *

I stood at my clothes closet debating. Usually with a simple job of skip-tracing there's not too much to worry about but when the Mulrooneys of this world are involved, even if only as middlemen, it can bode ill. I decided on the cautious approach. I've got several pairs of hand-made shoes, designed to my specifications. They have built-in steel toecaps. I had them made out-of-town and the makers thought I was a building inspector or something like that who needed safety shoes for work.

By the same token, all six of my fedoras have modifications. Between the lining and the outer felt there's a thin layer of specially-made chain mail. Okay, maybe I'm paranoid but if I am, I'm alive and paranoid.

So where to start? Guess I'd mooch on over to the Community College as Mulrooney suggested. The girl was bound to have some friends there, people who might be more likely to talk to me rather than to her parents. Especially if she was just off on a toot or was romancing with some handsome young swain.

It started out as a bit of a wasted journey. Plenty of students recognised Kathleen's photo, others knew her personally but hadn't seen or heard from her for a few days. One thing, most said she wasn't the type to go off on the razz.

I'd been strolling round for about thirty minutes, talking to groups of students, getting nowhere fast when a familiar voice greeted me. "Hi, Sam, what are you doing here?"

I turned to the pretty young girl who'd spoken. "Miranda. Good to see you. You're looking great."

Miranda had been a hooker when I met her but not yet one of the hardened variety, the kind who'd mug a bishop while he was still taking his cassock off. Guess I found her in time. Miranda was basically a sweet kid who'd gotten all the bad breaks life could throw at her. The daughter of a junky and a violent drunk, she escaped from home when she turned eighteen only to run straight into the arms of a nice guy who'd protect and care for her (that's a polite way of saying a pimp).

Miranda had been with the scumbag a little over a year when I came along. I found her sitting on the sidewalk crying. When I lifted her up I could see that she'd been badly beaten. Her 'saviour', the 'nice guy' pimp, thought she was holding out on him and worked her over as an object lesson to others. I don't know whether she was or not, that didn't justify the beating he'd handed out. To make things worse, he expected her to carry on working despite her battering to make up, he claimed, his losses.

I went after the bastard and had a few words with him. When he got out of hospital some weeks later, he decided that perhaps pimping in my neck of the woods was too dangerous an undertaking and shipped out fast. I put the word out that any other 'protector' I caught mistreating his ladies would meet the same fate. Some might even find themselves contemplating the surface of the harbour waters from beneath.

As for Miranda, she became like a little sister. Mr 'Nice' had tried to get her on the junk but her upbringing put her off that. I got her off the game and found her respectable work in a wholesale grocery business. Didn't pay like hooking but on the other hand her take home money was all hers. I found her a room in a women-only lodging house run by a nice old widow and even persuaded her to continue school at the Community College.

Miranda did come onto me a few times but I always turned her down. I think she was so starved of affection that she reached out to anyone who was nice to her.

"Don't you like me, Sam?" she cried once after I said 'No' for the ninth or tenth time.

"Yeah, I like you a lot, Miranda," I'd told her, "Just not that way. Hell, I'm twice your age in years and five times in experience. You've got to get used to the idea that not every guy who's nice to you wants to get into your pants. A lot just genuinely want to be nice."

I told Miranda why I was on campus and she looked carefully at the photo. "Can't say I know her, not personally. Seen her around is all. I know who may be able to help, Miss Campion. She's the personnel administrator here and she's been a good friend to me. Come on, Sam, I'll take you to her."

Miranda led me through a maze of corridors and staircases that would have baffled a Greek hero until we arrived at Miss Campion's office. I'd already made up my mind what to expect. Miss Campion would be a stereotype personnel administrator, closely chasing sixty with her grey hair pulled back into a tight bun. She would favour a brown tweed business suit and her upswept glasses would be on a cord hanging round her neck. I was already mentally addressing her as 'Ma'am'.

We reached her office and my guesswork flipped me the bird and told me I was an asshole. It was right.

Miss Campion was the type of woman who could make the Pope jump in the air and click his heels together. Tallish, maybe about thirty and looking damn good with it, she had auburn shoulder-length hair, a slim figure but one that went in and out where it should, and the most oddly-coloured, fascinating eyes I had ever seen, a shade of blue that was close to purple.

Miranda introduced me, telling the administrator I was a PI hoping for a little help. Taking off my hat, I addressed her politely as 'Miss Campion'. "Make it Giselle," she said, holding out a hand. It was the nicest hand I'd shaken for many a long day. "I'm Sam."

"And what can I do for you, Sam?"

I explained, producing the portrait photo to show her.

"Kathleen Hennessy," Giselle said, "I was told she'd missed several classes recently. I was going to check on her in a couple of days---college policy is to give absentees five days grace before trying to contact them. You'll appreciate that many of our students can't access a phone easily. That wouldn't be a problem for Kathleen but we extend the courtesy to all students.

"Leave me a business card, Sam," she continued, "I'll make some enquiries here and let you know if I turn anything up."

I thanked Giselle, shook that lovely warm hand again, then Miranda showed me the way out. As we reached the street, Miranda said: "I'll ask around too, Sam."

"I'd rather you didn't," I told her.

"But I'd like to help you, Sam. You've always been wonderful to me and I'd do most anything for you." She looked hurt. "Maybe you don't trust me?"

"Miranda, you're one of the people I do trust, no question," I told her, "Thing is, without mentioning names, I've been hired to find Kathleen by people who tread the wrong side of the law. Now this may be an easy and straightforward case but with my employer in it, it's better you stay out of it. Just in case..."

I kissed her forehead and promised to take her to dinner as soon as I was free.

* * * * *

I called Mulrooney from the nearest pay-phone and asked for the names of Kathleen's close friends. The list was waiting for me when I got back to the office. I noticed that Henry had managed to clean the Weasel's blood from the floor. Trouble was, he'd done such a good job that the rest of the floor now looked extra grubby. Still, he'd done well so I promised myself I'd slip him a few bucks bonus.

I looked over the list of names. Given the social circle that Kathleen's family moved in there were quite a few 'close' friends. However, Mulrooney---or maybe Howard---had managed to mark off names in levels of importance to Kathleen. That left me with about half-a-dozen to check out. Result: nada! A couple were on vacation, the others as puzzled as everyone else. As all said in much the same way, they hung out together regularly and, as they'd told her family, they'd heard nothing from their friend, had no idea where she was.

I got back to the office about five-thirty or so and was writing up the day's report when I had a call. It was Giselle Campion.

"I don't know if there's anything in this, Sam," she said, "but I overheard a couple of kids saying they thought they'd seen Kathleen going into a place called The Easy-Go Club. No idea where that might be, though."

"Thanks, Giselle, I'll find it. In fact, no time like the present."

* * * * *

On occasion I find it more convenient to carry a smaller gun than my .45. When I do, I favour the Colt Detective Special .38, double-action with two-inch barrel, for my back-up piece. The weather this evening was fairly chilly so my coat'd be buttoned up making it awkward to reach the .45 if needed in a hurry. I stuck the .38 in my coat pocket. I didn't think I'd need it but you know what they say about being safe...

A quick talk with a cabbie friend of mine pointed me in the right direction. When I got there, The Easy-Go so-called 'club' was as unimpressive as you can get, maybe a dozen or so tables and several booths. Dingy lighting as if they wanted to save on the power bills. Filthy floor as if they wanted to save on cleaner's wages. The stink of stale booze as if they wanted to save on air-fresheners.

The place was full of early evening drinkers. They were as shabby as their 'club', mostly life-beaten old blue-collar guys seeing out their retirement on pitchers of beer and shots of cheap whiskey. A few of them were dedicated winos---you could tell by the puke stains down their twentieth-best suits. Heads were raised as I walked in, a hundred or so eyes in various stages of bleariness stared. Several must have recognised me for they tried to hide by lowering their heads and finding something interesting on the floor. Ostriches have nothing in it. It got real quiet.

Maybe Giselle had got her names mixed up. This wasn't the kind of joint you'd expect to find a missing girl. Or get any information. Still, I was here now... "It's okay, fellers," I said, "I'm not here for trouble, just like you to look at a photo, see if you recognise the girl in it."

"Who the hell let you in, Malone?" snarled from behind me, "This is my joint and you ain't welcome." I knew that grating voice. Albie Gleeson. Small-time mobster with big-time ambitions. We'd had issues in the past. I'd just assured the happy drinkers I wasn't there for trouble. I was wrong. I turned to face Gleeson. He could have been almost tall if he was given another few inches, on the skinny side, gaunt face mean as a spitting cobra with disposition to match, eyes a bit too close together, ears a bit too far apart. He looked funny like a dose of plague is funny. In fact, he was everything the Weasel wanted to be but wasn't.

And he had his pet monster, The Ogre, with him. That's what they called the guy, The Ogre, like those in fairy tales only not so pleasant. Guess he must have had a real name at one time but nobody seemed to know what it was. To the sub-world we all moved in he was The Ogre, monster by name and monster by nature. Maybe six-seven or --eight, around three- hundred-and-fifty pounds of sheer nastiness. He was Albie's bodyguard and chief enforcer. And he liked hurting people. With a lot of enforcers it was just another job, nothing personal. With The Ogre it was all personal, all pleasure.

"Throw the bum out, Ogre," Gleeson ordered, "And if you happen to hurt him badly on the way, so much better." A lot of the drinkers perked up like they'd enjoy watching the coming traffic accident and bloodshed.

"You got it boss," the giant rumbled. He grabbed the lapels of my coat and rammed me up against a wall. A huge hand patted down my left-hand side but didn't find a gun. He bared ill-kept teeth in a fake-friendly grin. "Hope you've got good health insurance, gumshoe."

Times like this I relied on people being stupid or creatures of habit, or in cases like The Ogre, both. They almost always assumed you carried a gun under your left arm. Most of the idiots didn't think of where left-handers might keep their shoulder-holsters. I reached into my right-hand coat pocket for the .38.

"Are you fond of your dick, Ogre?"

The Ogre's eyes bulged. "Huh? What're you, some kinda fa---"

"What I am is a guy holding a gun against your dick and balls," I said as I shoved hard so he could feel the muzzle pressing into his groin. I pulled back the hammer. In the room's hush it sounded deadly loud. "It's got a hair trigger so if you don't let go of the threads right now and back up a few feet, I'm going to blow them off."

For the first known time in the annals of City crime, The Ogre gulped and looked worried, maybe even a little scared. He did as told. As he moved back I kicked out with my steel-capped shoe and there was a nasty popping noise as his right knee tore loose from its moorings. He cried out in pain as he toppled to the floor, the ground shaking a little as he landed. Now he'd get a slight idea of how his victims felt. It occurred to me that he was a little lopsided now so I kicked his left knee out to even him up. This time his shriek was oddly girlish. The Ogre wouldn't be hurting anyone for a long time---he'd be too busy balancing on crutches.

He was moaning with pain after those kicks and the noise got on my nerves so by way of a pain-killer I kicked him in the face a couple of times. He went to sleep. Hope he likes soup. When he woke up, he'd likely find himself on a diet of the stuff for a few months while the two or three breaks in his jaw mended. The drinkers suddenly lost interest in the proceedings and went back to studying the floor.

Albie Gleeson looked down at The Ogre with disgust. He didn't exactly brim over with sympathy for his faithful follower. "Useless sonofabitch!" he growled and kicked his unconscious associate hard in the ribs, maybe breaking a few more bones.

"I hope he's got good health insurance, Albie," I said.

Gleeson's expression was savage like he didn't give a rat's ass about The Ogre's health insurance. It was savage like he wanted to reduce me to a pile of ashes. But he backed down under my gaze. Guess he didn't want to tangle with a guy holding a cocked pistol who could put The Ogre out of other people's misery. "Go show your picture, Malone," Gleeson snarled, "Then get out."

Nobody recognised Kathleen but then I didn't expect them to, not with Albie Gleeson standing there. Just maybe, though... There was a guy sitting in a booth behind Gleeson who caught my eye. His face stayed impassive but he glanced towards the door, eyes barely moving, and lifted his beer as if it was a cup. I hoped I was picking up the right signals.

"Thanks for your co-operation, Mr Gleeson," I said politely and then: "Thanks fellers!" to the room in general.

About a block down I found a diner so I went in, sat at the counter and ordered a cup of joe from the chubby bottle-blonde behind the counter. It occurred that if the guy did have something for me, and if his brain still worked okay, I'd be waiting quite a while---he wouldn't want to be too obvious leaving soon after me. I'd not eaten for a while and feeling peckish ordered a donut to go with the coffee. Cara would have told me to eat healthy and have a salad but Cara was visiting Hickstown, Hicks County, Hicksylvania so my diet didn't figure for much. The donut wasn't all that fresh so maybe Cara would have been right. Still, it filled a gap.

It was about forty-five minutes before the guy sidled in and took the stool two down from mine without looking at me. I'd had a couple more coffees while waiting. It was harsh stuff and I hoped my bladder could cope. Looked like my new acquaintance was known here because the bottle-blonde put a coffee in front of him without a word passed between them.

He lifted the steaming cup to his mouth as a shield and whispered sideways, barely moving his lips like he'd had a lot of practise. Ex-con maybe. "Dunno if it'll be any good to you, mister, but there's a joint called Bizarre, heading on downtown, four-five blocks past the Tobacco Brokers' auction place." He paused for a sip of coffee and glanced around. Bottle-blond was pouring coffee into a drunk at the far end of the counter. Nobody else was near us so he continued: "Heard it's a joint for weirdos, kinda guys and gals like crazy sex things. Also heard they like to get young girls in there. Maybe worth your checkin' out."

I took out a pack of Luckies with about seven or eight cigarettes left in. Under shelter of the counter, so only my new friend could see, I slipped a folded sawbuck into it, laid it openly on the counter-top, pulled a Lucky and put a match to it.

My informant turned as if noticing me for the first time. Aloud he said: "Can you spare one of them smokes, mister?"

I pushed the Luckies towards him. "Sure. Here, keep the pack, I've got more."

He nodded his thanks and the bottle-blonde said: "You shouldn't be so generous, mister, Andy's always bumming smokes from my customers."

"What's a few butts? Don't hurt me, pleases him." I laid enough money on the counter to cover the coffee and donut with the tip just right, neither big enough nor small enough to get me remembered. "Great coffee," I lied to blondie and she simpered as I walked out the door.

* * * * *

I found Bizarre in a fairly sleazy street about ten minutes walk from where Andy had said. A small neon sign, pink-and-purple and with a couple of letters out, signalled its name. I said the street was sleazy, it was little more than a collection of cheap bars, burlesque shows, strip joints and stores selling merchandise I didn't care to think about. I spotted a number of society's rejects curled up on the sidewalks and the gutters, winos or hop-heads sleeping off their latest jag. I couldn't really see the area appealing to anyone from a decent home but with kids... hey, who knows? Bizarre's door was open and faint notes of music drifted up from somewhere. Sounded like Glenn Miller, Chattanooga Choo-Choo. There was a dimly-lighted, narrow corridor leading Christ knows where. Ah well...