Just Another Day

I turned to Baaker, putting a friendly hand on a shoulder. "Sergeant, I'd like to say thanks for showing me what it takes to be a real tough guy." I sank my fist up to the wrist in his fat gut and he went to his knees, struggling not to throw up. "All finished here, Captain," I said.

* * * * *

After leaving the precinct house, I spent a pretty fruitless day pounding the sidewalks in all the places I thought a missing teenager might go. Perhaps the trouble was I'd seen about twenty years or more than the average teen and my brain was wired differently. A thing I did hear from a few different sources was that a number of young women had gone missing in recent days. I didn't pay too much attention to these stories. This is a big city and people disappear all the time. Many of them don't want to be found. The cops weren't too bothered either. Unless there's something really serious going down---like an itinerant killer---the separate precincts tend not to share information. They have enough problems of their own to deal with.

Every month or so Lyle and I would have dinner together or lift a couple of pitchers of beer or go to a ball-game. It helped us clear out the human shit that we saw in our working lives, Lyle likely more than me.

So when the sidewalk pounding grew boring I called my pal and we arranged to have dinner at Ziggy's. Ziggy was an old retired cop who set up his own diner after leaving the force. I don't know what he was like as a cop---before my time---but his cooking was great, his steaks to die for. One of his sublime fillet steaks with a side of fries and a beer or two was a feast fit for The White House.

We tried not to talk shop on these occasions but now and again the shop landed on us. Lyle's fault for being a captain, they had to know where he was at all times.

"Hey, Captain," Ziggy called out, holding up the bar phone, "Precinct wants you."

Lyle went and took the call, returning with a grim face.

"That's dinner fucked, " he told me, "I've got to go in. Baaker's dead. Hit-and-run, about fifteen minutes ago. Or maybe I should say multiple hit-and-run. Whoever did it went over him three or four times to make sure."

"Difficult to write that off as an accident," I said, "Any witnesses? Any idea who might have done it?"

"No wits---it was just back of our parking lot and the street lighting's shot to hell there. As for suspects... You saw Baaker in action today. Could be half the city. Hell, Sam, you'd be a suspect if you weren't here with me."

* * * * *

I had an early phone call when I was shaving next morning. It was Ting-a-Ling Bell. "Can we meet up at Hogan's for coffee, say an hour. Got something that may be useful for you."

Hogan was another retiree, fighter this time. He was one of the lucky ones, kept his brains and money intact. When he gave up the game, he poured a chunk of his money into a gym-cum-boxing club and made a success of it. He made his back office available to me when I needed some private time with a snitch, complimentary coffee included.

We had a few courtesy minutes talking with Hogan, who was looking good, who had potential, that sort of thing then he opened the office, gave us a mug of java each and left us to it. "What've you got, Ting-a-Ling?"

He lowered his voice although there was only the two of us. "That cop who got wasted last night... word on the street is that he was dirty. Not sure who he worked for, could have been Albie Gleeson but that's just scuttlebutt. Said he got greedy, wanted a bigger cut and if he didn't get it he'd spill the beans. Good way to have a fatal accident."

I slipped Ting-a-Ling a couple of twenties. He's not a greedy guy, said that was too much for what he'd given me. "It's worth a helluva lot more to me, pal," I told him.

Playing safe and keeping Hogan's out of it, I found a pay phone several blocks away and gave Lyle a call. "Got a couple of tickets for the next big game," I told him. When I had to call him at the precinct, we'd worked out a set of code-words for different situations. There were always ears flapping and we didn't trust the call operator. The tickets and game ploy told him that I had some information from a trusted snitch and to meet me at the usual place.

* * * * *

That's when I had a little more cop trouble. I was pulling into a parking spot near our usual rendezvous when my rear-view mirror showed a flashing red light and I got a single warning siren note. The patrol car pulled up beside me, hemming me in. Another glance told me I'd been stopped by Mason and Emmett, also known as Laurel and Hardy.

Practically every precinct in the city had its Laurel and Hardy. When a lot of the younger cops were drafted for the military, the shortfall was filled by guys who mostly wouldn't have been hired as precinct janitors. Come the end of the war, a lot of the surviving regular guys returned and the Police Department tried to get rid of the waste wood. That was when the Police Federation stepped in and refused to allow it. Lyle's penance for whatever sins he'd committed was these two.

They'd been christened Laurel and Hardy because one was short and skinny like Stan and the other tall and fat like Ollie. Ollie unfastened his holster, took out his Police Positive and pointed it at me. That meant if he decided to open fire, I'd be fairly safe. God help any innocent citizens walking by. In the interest of public safety I kept my hands on the wheel.

"Step out of the car," Stanley ordered. When I complied he gestured to the trunk end and had me assume the position to pat me down. "Hey, he's armed!"

"I've got a Federal carry permit," I said, wearily. These clowns would make anyone weary. "I've also got a city carry permit, a driver's license, my PI license and social security card."

Laurel dug all of these items from my wallet and beckoned his partner. "These look like forgeries to me. What do you think?"

"Definitely forgeries," agreed Ollie. I couldn't decide which one was the bigger idiot.

"I think we've got the guy who killed Sergeant Baaker," said Stan. He took out his nightstick and for a moment I thought he was going to lay into me. Instead he walked to the front of my car and I heard the tinkling of glass as he smashed the headlights. Ollie's pistol hand was starting to shake and I started to feel nervous. After surviving the war I'd hate to die at the hands of a cop who should be cleaning public rest-rooms.

Stanley strolled back. "Serious damage to headlights," he announced, "and the fender's buckled, like the car was in a hit-and-run."

That was when Lyle arrived for our meeting. He climbed out of his car. "What the fuck---"

Stanley pointed at me. "We've got Baaker's killer, Captain."

Lyle sighed. "You pair of morons. What were you doing during roll-call, jerking off in the men's room? You'd've heard that Mr Malone was with me at the time Baaker was killed. Or maybe you're planning on arresting me as an accessory? I don't mind you being stupid. I do take it badly when you think I'm as stupid as you are. And holster that pistol, Emmett, you're a menace with it in your hand."

"We didn't know who he was, Captain," Stanley protested.

"You've got all that ID and you didn't know who he was. Christ!" Lyle shook his head in disgust. "Right, we're going to take Mr Malone's car to the best repair shop in the city and guess who's paying for the damage---and it won't be the Police Department."

* * * * *

I'd told Lyle that Baaker might have been dirty and he'd worked fast. Among Baaker's effects was a key-ring and on it an obvious safe-deposit box key. It was quickly identified as being for a bank one block down from the precinct. I figure Baaker wasn't too bright. That or he was plain lazy and couldn't be bothered to go any further. And not many cops made enough to warrant a safe-deposit box. Lyle went to a friendly judge and got a search warrant.

Witnesses for the opening of Baaker's box were me and Lyle, a lieutenant from Internal Affairs, a humourless-looking IRS agent and the bank's manager who kept trying to assure us he wasn't involved in shady goings on. I was there as a courtesy, the story being that I was investigating a possible insurance fraud involving Baaker. For some reason the IRS guy didn't like me being there until Lyle suggested he go and argue the point with Judge Francis. After that he shut up. Judge Francis was known to dislike Federal agents, especially IRS. He'd once put some FBI guys in the slammer for a few hours for contempt. J Edgar was not amused.

The box was the largest size the bank provided. The banker opened the first of two locks, Lyle the second and the lid creaked as it was lifted. Mr IRS showed his first touch of humanity as the contents were revealed. "Holy shit!" he hissed, "We're all in the wrong job."

There was more money in the box than the average unpleasant, fat desk sergeant could hope to make in a couple of lifetimes. It was going to take an IA guy and an IRS agent a good couple of hours to count that lot.

There was something else there, a faded and slightly blurred photograph of a woman. Her face wasn't too clear because she was turned away slightly from the camera, peeping back over her shoulder, and long blond hair hung down to cover one eye. She looked a lot like that peek-a-boo actress, Veronica Lake.

Lyle passed the photo round. "Anyone know who she is?" Head shakes all round.

The IRS guy picked the picture up. "Amateur job," he muttered. Seeing us all looking at him, he said: "Poor quality paper, badly printed, amateur job. I'm a pretty good photographer in my own time, got my own dark-room, all the trimmings. Don't look so surprised, I don't spend all my time robbing the poor to give to the rich." Maybe the guy had a sense of humour after all.

* * * * *

It was getting late when I got back to the office to write up my report diary. While I was at it I checked in with my telephone answering service. There were two messages. The first was that Miranda had called, said she had some important information for me, might help me find the subject. She couldn't say more over the phone. That had been about seven hours before. The second message, three hours previously, was from Arty Getz at St Xavier's Hospital. Arty was a brilliant surgeon who'd fixed me up once when I'd stopped a bullet. He'd said I should get to the hospital as soon as I got his message.

I called ahead and Arty met me at the door. "It's Miranda," he said.

I felt a chill. "What's happened?"

"You'd better come and see." He took me to a room with a single bed. Miranda was swathed in bandages and hooked up to all manner of equipment. There was a cop sitting in the corner of the room, young Vasari. I nodded to him. "We've got her sedated and pumped full of painkillers," Arty told me, "She's not going to make it, Sam, it's just a matter of time."

"What happened to her, Arty?"

Arty grimaced. "Some real sadist. She's got a lot of burns, wired up to some electric device we think. She bit her tongue partly through, probably when it was happening. Something was dripped into one of her eyes, drain cleaner by the looks. And she's been badly beaten, baseball bat possibly. Number of ribs broken, lungs punctured. Then she was just dumped in the street and left. There's not much we can do, Sam, except keep her pain-free until the end."

"Can I stay with her?"

He nodded. "If she does wake up, she's so full of morphine she won't feel anything."

Miranda did come half-awake a couple of times. Her speech was thick and hard to understand because of the wound to her tongue. She tried to say she'd been helping me and kept repeating the word 'rend, rend'. The second time she asked me to hold her hand. Although it came out garbled, she managed to say: "I love you, Sam."

"And I love you, honey."

After about an hour, she slipped away. I'm not a religious guy but I hoped Miranda had gone on to something better than life had dealt her. And I cried. Goddam it! I cried!

Some of Miranda's clothing---jeans, t-shirt, boots---was lying on a side table and I went to pick it up to check the contents. "I'm sorry, Mr Malone," said young Vasari, "I've been told nobody's to touch anything until the coroner's been."

"There may be some indication who did this," I said, "It's an off-chance."

"I'm sorry, sir. I have my orders." Vasari stood up. "Well, wadda you know, I gotta go take a leak. Can you make sure nobody touches anything, Mr Malone? Thanks." I think Vasari will go far. As soon as the young cop left the room I ran my hands over Miranda's gear. I found one thing in a back pocket of her jeans, a folder photograph. It was the same Veronica Lake picture we'd found in Baaker's strong-box only this one was first-class, an original print. On the reverse was a small business stamp: 'Hendrix Photography' with a downtown address.

Before leaving the hospital I went to see Arty Getz. "Let me know when the coroner and cops have finished all their work. I'll cover the funeral."

Arty nodded, then said: "Maybe as a doctor I shouldn't suggest this, Sam, but when you find the bastard who did this, kill him."

* * * * *

The next morning I headed for Hendrix Photography. The studio was no longer at the address on the photo but I found it two or three blocks away. I was greeted by a short, chubby guy, balding but with strands of hair cunningly draped over his head. "Hi, I'm Al Hendrix. What can I do for you? Portrait, family group, passport?"

"None of those," I told him and showed my PI's license. I laid the photo face down on the counter top. "This is your work? I'm looking for information on the subject."

He tapped the stamped address. "Yup, that's ours." He turned the photo right side up. "Oh yeah, Veronica Lake. Almost forgotten these."

"These?"

"Yeah, did about a dozen of them. Some magazine wanted to do a spread on film star look-alikes. There was her..." pointing to Veronica, "Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable the like... as I said, about a dozen altogether. Took twenty or so shots of each one, different poses."

"Can you remember this girl's name?"

Hendrix shook his head. "Never knew them. An editor just wheeled the girls and their outfits in, told me who they were to resemble and let me get on with it. This one was about the best subject. O'course, the quality of the wig helped."

"That's a wig?"

"One of the best I've seen."

"This may be important," I told him, "Can you tell me which magazine it was?"

He shook his head again. "Went bust after two issues. Good job I got paid before they went under.

"Haven't you got any records?"

If Hendrix shook his head any harder it would likely come off. "Sorry. There was a fire in the building, all our paperwork went up in smoke. That's why we moved to this address."

Looked like I was getting nowhere fast. "Thanks, Mr Hendrix, I---"

"There was something," Hendrix interrupted, pointing to Veronica again, "She got involved in some damned nasty business. Saw her pictures in the papers at the time, remembered her even without the wig. She tried to saw some guy's pecker off with a butcher knife. You must have seen the news reports, it was about early 1947."

It was my turn to head shake. "I was still in Japan then, military police. What happened?"

"She claimed he tried to rape her. Guy said he didn't touch her, they were having a drink together and she just went crazy, grabbed the knife and went after him. He said she seemed to enjoy it, laughing while she worked." More head shaking. "In the end, her mouthpiece persuaded the jury it was temporary insanity caused by her ordeal. Judge gave her a year in the State Institute for the mentally ill. That's the last I heard of... Suppose she was treated then released."

* * * * *

When I tried to get information from the State Institute it was refused on the grounds of patient confidentiality. Now if I was to get a warrant... No chance. Not even Judge Francis would issue a warrant to a PI, especially on flimsy hearsay and guesswork.

* * * * *

Coming up against a brick wall every which way, I could only try climbing over it. I'd go back to the Bizarre club later, see if any of those youngsters were there and try to get some information out of them.

I was approaching Bizarre when I pulled up short and slipped into a shadowed doorway. There was a guy I recognised waiting outside the entrance. Officer Mason, aka Stan Laurel. He was pacing up and down as if anxious, now and again glancing at his watch. Several minutes of this and a cab pulled up beside him. A woman got out. Giselle. She went up to Mason and they appeared to greet each other.

Now what the hell was Giselle doing here? And how did she know a halfwit like Mason? She could have been on one of her Save-the-Girls missions but I couldn't see Stanley giving a shit about wayward girls.

After a moment's conversation, the two went through the weird club's doorway. I gave them several minutes then followed on. Ting-a-Ling was outside of his booth and greeted me. "Hi, Mr Malone, you must be getting to like this joint," he grinned.

"And how! Man and a woman just came in. You know them?"

"The dame who's a real looker? Yeah, she's a regular. Seems to have a taste for young girls, always bringing them in, anyway. Look like barely legals." Ting-a-Ling shrugged as if to say 'It takes all types'. "The guy I don't know, never seen him before. She vouched for him. You tailing them, Mr Malone?"

"Could be---they might lead me to something. I'll go on down, Ting-a-Ling."

When I got to the foot of the stairs, it was a relief to see that my crucified friend and his stunning playmate weren't there. Small mercies. I inched my way past the exotic crowd until I spotted my quarry in that back room. Giselle and Stanley were sitting at a small table by themselves, no younger women this time. I stood well back, fairly sure I'd not be seen.

Giselle turned her head to glance around the room. As she did so, a lock of her auburn hair flopped loose and covered one eye. Not blond but it might as well have been. Just like Veronica Lake...

Peek-a-boo! Veronica Lake. Pieces started to fall into place, pieces I didn't like the thought of, pieces I didn't want to believe. I suddenly felt a bit sick.

As I watched they got up from their table and went out through an adjacent fire-exit, slamming the fire-door behind them before I managed to push my way through the mob. I tried the door but it was firmly fastened---the lock must have caught when they slammed it behind them and no amount of shaking and pushing did any good.

"Hey, what are you doing, buddy?" It was one of the 'stewards', the kind who looked as if he bench-pressed four-hundred pound barbells one-handed while scratching his nuts with the other. I could have lectured him on the city ordinance that fire-doors should remain unlocked. That would have wasted time. Anyway, at times like this, who cared about city ordinances? Instead, I appealed to the brotherhood-of-put-upon-men.

"Just seen my wife go through here with some guy!" I shouted to be heard above the noise, "I want to catch the bitch putting out, maybe cut her alimony!"

He nodded in sympathy and pulled a key to unlock the door. "Go get her, pal! Summa the bitches get away with too much!" This sounded like the plaintive cry of an alimony-paying ex-. I thanked him and rushed into the street.

I ran up a ramp to sidewalk level and looked one way and another. Giselle had disappeared but I could see Stanley walking down the street a few hundred yards distant . I hoped he hadn't got a car because mine was still in the repair shop. He kept on walking so I'd be okay. Some parts of the city walking is easier at night. With cars lining up both sides of streets you can spend more time looking for a parking spot than the round trip takes.