Just Another Day

I kept well back so I wouldn't be spotted. Even then, a good cop might have instinctively felt he was being tailed. They call it 'copper's nose'. Stanley was not a good cop. The only 'copper's nose' he had was the one he poked up the desk sergeant's ass when he wanted an easy assignment. When he turned into a side street, I simply waited in the shadows for him to come out. I knew these streets well and he had turned into a dead end. What was down there?

I didn't need to wait long. Stanley came out and sauntered on. I let him get ahead before following. When I came level with the dead-end I saw that lights were blazing in a building there. There shouldn't have been any lights. The place was an old bank that had been closed down during the war. There was another, more modern, branch maybe a mile or so away so this one had been left empty and unused.

I decided to have a look-see. I could always pick up on Stanley another time or maybe get Lyle and Internal Affairs to check him out. The guy was dirty, of that I was sure.

The main door of the deserted building was closed but gave easily when I tried the handle. I loosened my .45 and peered in cautiously. I couldn't see anything. To the left was a long counter with four or five tellers' cages. Behind them a number of small rooms which had served as interview rooms for customers with private business. Beyond, another door marked MANAGER in faded lettering. Down the centre of the floor was another long counter for the use of clients wishing to complete assorted papers and forms of the annoying bureaucratic variety. At the far end long, moth-eaten drapes covered something while scattered about the floor were disused items of furniture, metal chairs, that kind of thing, all covered in dust and cobwebs.

I waited a few minutes but nothing stirred, I couldn't see or hear anyone and the place appeared deserted. I wondered what Stanley had found interesting in here. Maybe it was a dropping off point for something. A small moaning noise caught my ear, only momentary. I was sure my ears weren't deceiving me. There it was again, low, almost inaudible. It seemed to come from behind those drapes.

I put a hand on my pistol but didn't draw it yet, stepped down to the room's far end.

As I reached the spot I could see dust on the floor had been disturbed, churned up by a number of feet moving round. I pulled the drapes aside and blinked at what I saw. There was a floor-to-ceiling barred gate, thick iron bars like those in a jail. The room beyond was likely the abandoned bank's former strong-room or vault. The gate was secured by a hefty padlock, the kind a zoo would fit on the tiger-cage.

But it wasn't that made me blink. The floor was covered with a number of filthy mattresses on which a dozen or so girls were lying. Someone had flung some equally filthy blankets over them. They looked like a mixed bunch: there were several Caucasians, a black girl, one who appeared Chinese, a few Hispanics. From what I could tell, they were all young and all beautiful whatever their race. I thought I recognised one of the Caucasians and tugged at the lock. It would take more than that to open it.

None of the girls stirred and it looked like they were all heavily sedated. I guessed they'd stay that way until the unknown drug wore off. One of them must have moaned in her narcotic-induced sleep.

Next thing, I thought I heard soft running steps behind me. I started to turn, reaching for my Colt but I wasn't quite fast enough. However, because I'd turned aside the descending sap or whatever just caught me a glancing blow rather than the full-blooded one it was meant to. My hat with its lining of thin chain-mail protected me to an extent as well. The blow didn't knock me out, only made me groggy for a moment or two. They were long enough moments for a couple of guys to dump me in one of the old metal office chairs and fasten my hands to it with cuffs. I clutched at the chair's metal frame and shook it but no dice, it wouldn't give. One of my attackers reached under my jacket to snag my pistol.

Shaking my head, I looked up. In front of me was the Weasel tapping a rubber blackjack in the palm of one hand. He must have been lurking in one of those privacy alcoves or crouched down behind a teller's cage. Jesus, I really was getting old. I glanced at Weasel's feet. He was wearing rubber-soled sneakers which explained how he'd managed to get to me so fast. I think he gave me a nasty little grin but all the bandages on his face made it hard to be sure.

"Awake, huh shamus?" Pure Jimmy Cagney. With a bit of practise he could work his way up the ladder. Bogie next, then maybe Edward G. "Guess you must have a skull made of rocks." He lifted the sap to give me another one but a voice rapped, "No!"

I knew that voice. Howard. Mr Polite himself. Mr War Hero. Well, well.

"But Howard---" squeaked the Weasel.

"Don't 'But Howard---' me, you little rat. I told you not to hit him hard, just a gentle tap to make him easy to handle, so what do you do? You try to bust his skull! You've got to learn to do as you're told else that nose will never get fixed. Now, stand by the cage and keep your hands to yourself unless I tell you otherwise."

Another actor entered stage left. Or should I say actress. Giselle smiled at me. She didn't look so sweet and innocent any more. There was something deep in those purple eyes that suggested a seriously disturbed person. I remembered what the photographer had said about his model spending time in the State funny farm. "Hi, Sammy," she cooed, "I'd kind of hoped to have you around a bit longer but sorry, not to be."

She bent to kiss me and I turned my head away. "Aw, doesn't want loving any more?" she mocked. Taking my face between her hands she licked all round my mouth with that lively little tongue and nipped my lower lip with sharp teeth. I didn't respond so tiring of the game she went over to the vault. "Like our little birdies, Sammy? They won't be here much longer---some lucky mid-east potentates will be sheathing their dicks in them. They pay a premium for genuine virgins over there and these are all certified. Then when they've finished the little birdies will go into a high-class brothel for princes, foreign diplomats and businessmen." Giselle sighed. "Pity, really. If it wasn't for the money I'd like to keep one or two for fun. A lot of fun." She giggled, an insane and chilling noise. As she turned to look at me over her shoulder and gloat, a thick lock of hair fell across her left eye. There was no doubt now, Veronica Lake's double it was.

I recalled something Miranda had said when I visited the college: "Miss Campion. She's the personnel administrator here and she's been a good friend to me."

"I'd hoped maybe I was wrong," I said, "but it was you, wasn't it? Did that to Miranda? I thought she was saying 'rend' but she was trying to say 'friend'. You're the 'friend' she was trying to tell me about. And I guess you guided me towards that Easy-Go dive and tipped your boss off so that The Ogre could mangle me. That's why you looked so shocked when you saw me in the Bizarre. It wasn't surprise, it was shock---you thought I'd be in some gutter, beaten to a pulp. And you didn't want me to talk to those three girls because you weren't trying to guide them like you said but pull them into your nasty little net. I suppose you arranged for that near motor accident outside your apartment block."

"Ooh, Sammy really is a detective, got all the answers." Another giggle. "Instead you mangled poor Ogre. I'd like to have seen that. Been even funnier if you had shot him in the dick. I heard he'll be in hospital for a few weeks. As for the girl, I had fun with that one---pity, I couldn't spare too much time on her, had to make it quick. It was her own damn fool fault, anyway. If she hadn't shot her mouth off about helping you she might still be okay."

More steps, heavier and louder this time. "Malone, huh?" I knew that voice, too, Albie Gleeson. "Don't know how he found us but it doesn't matter much now. Guess this is where his career comes to an end. He's a dead man. Can't wait to read The Bugle's obit." I'd only heard one set of steps so he couldn't have replaced The Ogre yet. Maybe Howard was filling that role although I couldn't see him breaking people in two just for fun. I thought Gleeson would gloat but no, just sounded matter-of-fact, business-like. He added: "What about that skinny cop?"

"Paid off," Giselle said.

"Okay," Gleeson continued, "But he might need an accident later like Baaker---I don't trust him."

"Can I do that, Albie?" Giselle asked eagerly, then laughing, "It was great doing that Baaker guy. Driving over that fat gut of his was like a roller-coaster ride." Yeah, looked like the lovely Giselle was a real sicko.

"Sure," said Gleeson, "Only wait for me to give the word, okay? Anyhow, there's been a change of plan---going to be a slight delay, maybe twenty-four, thirty-six hours tops. Bronsteen's Middle East contact has to go to some important last minute oil company meeting. It'll mean keeping our girls here under for a while longer before we can ship them out. Giselle, you give them all some more sleepy juice, just enough to keep them quiet."

Bronsteen! He'd said 'Bronsteen's contact'. It had to be the Bronsteen. Couldn't be too many Bronsteens in the city with connections to wealthy Middle Eastern types. Life had just given me a tailor-made chance to get Bronsteen---at the same time, life giveth and life taketh away. Why the hell did life let me be chained down like this with a negative future looking me in the eye?

"What do you want me to do with Malone, Mr Gleeson?" Christ! Isn't Howard ever impolite?

"Just waste him, right now. We'll decide what to do with the body later." Gleeson snorted. "Shoot him with his own gun, blow a hole in his guts."

"I've got a better idea," said Howard, "Do it your way and the cops might come sniffing round. It's well known you want Malone out of your hair, that'd make you a suspect. Could call a halt to your business for a while. And a .45 can make a mess. Ever seen one of these?"

"Jesus Christ!" cried Gleeson, "What the hell's that? A bb-gun? You think you're gonna kill him with a goddam bb-gun?"

"This isn't a toy. Lilliput, German pistol, small calibre, .25," said Howard, "I've doctored the ammo so it's like dum-dums. And rubbed it in garlic like the Mafia do. Put one in the back of his head, the slug will expand and mash his brains. Small entry wound, no exit wound. Almost no blood. It's a Mob favourite for quick executions. We dump him at his office. The cops will find him and figure it's Mob work. Hell, he's made a stack of enemies in the city, why not include the Italians? The cops'll try to fathom it but it could have been a hit-man from any of the Families, even an out-of-town gunny. Cops don't like wasting too much time on Mafia killings so they won't keep at it for long."

"Now that's what I call good thinking, shows intelligence," said Gleeson, "Could do with more guys like you on my team." Yeah, he said 'team' like he was an enthusiastic football manager. "Okay, do it."

They say you don't hear the shot that kills you. I heard the shot all right, the low crack of a small calibre firearm. I didn't know what the hell was going on behind my back but there was a sudden look of panic on what I could see of the Weasel's face. He started to run. My hands may have been cuffed but my legs were free. I stuck out a foot and the pint-sized bastard took a dive, ass over tip. His sap went flying and his nose must have had a death wish this week for he landed right on it. As always, he squealed like a Bizarre patron enjoying the services of an overweight lady with a riding-crop.

Weasel scrabbled to get to his feet until a rapped command from Howard ordered him to stay down. He stayed down.

Giselle must have made some kind of move because Howard shouted at her too. "You're not going anywhere either! Sit down there! By the cage. Neither of you move." Giselle gave one of those crazy giggles but did as she was told.

I felt Howard fiddling with the cuffs and they fell away. "Sorry about all that, Sam. We weren't expecting you to turn up and I had to improvise, make it look good, put him off his guard." He gestured to the floor behind him. Albie Gleeson lay on his back. You might have thought him sleeping save for the tiny hole in his forehead. There was only a slight trickle of blood. "Good shooting," I acknowledged.

"City's a bit cleaner now, anyway," Howard said, "Sooner than we'd planned but necessary. Hoped to get a line on all his contacts---they'll likely disappear now."

Howard handed me my Colt and I indicated the cage. "Did you know about this?"

"We suspected---confirmed earlier this evening," he said, shaking his head.

"Then how come you're working for Gleeson?"

"Mulrooney's idea for getting the inside on Gleeson," Howard told me, "He'd heard a rumour there was something really nasty going down involving young girls, wanted to know what so he could try and stop it. Quite a moral man in his own funny way is Mulrooney. Few weeks back he got me to put it about that I wanted to move. Nothing explicit, just little moans and grumbles here and there. Said he had deep pockets and short arms, wasn't paying me enough. I had a reputation for using my head. Maybe five, six days ago Gleeson decided I could be useful. Just like that. He wasn't very bright, didn't even investigate me." He produced a thick envelope from an inside pocket. It was sealed down but felt as if there was plenty of money inside. "Signing on bonus."

Howard pointed to the prone Weasel. "That little asshole wanted in. I couldn't trust him to keep his mouth shut so I sold him to Gleeson as an expert with locks. He's the one who got us into this place several nights back. Good job the power was still connected." He held up the envelope. "Arnold got one too, although not so thick. A bonus for unlocking the main door here."

Moving so as to shield my front from the two on the floor, I whispered: "Can I borrow that pop-gun of yours?"

Howard looked at me for a few seconds, decided he could trust me, and handed me the Lilliput. It wasn't much bigger than the palm of my hand." I slipped it into a side pocket and went to stand over Giselle. "You can get up and walk out of here."

Her eyes opened in astonishment. Howard looked baffled too but said nothing. "You're letting me go, Sammy?" said Giselle.

"Yeah, call it for old times' sake."

She rose slowly and put a hand out to touch my cheek. I batted the hand away, saying: "Don't push your luck. Just walk."

"Shame, Sammy," she said, "We could have had fun together."

"Not your kind of fun," I told her, "Now beat it before I regret being generous."

Giselle shrugged and turned to walk towards the door. She wouldn't have heard the shot that killed her. One small calibre slug, back of the head, Mob style.

The Weasel whimpered again, I suppose thinking he was about to meet his maker (or, more likely, his maker's chief business rival). About time he realised he'd never make a gangster, not in a hundred years. Howard said nothing but looked at the late Giselle and raised an eyebrow.

"More merciful than she deserved," I said. I put the Lilliput in my raincoat pocket. "You didn't see what she did to that poor kid Miranda. As nasty as anything I've seen. Must have been others over the years---you don't get that skilled the first time."

"So what do we do now? Any ideas?"

"Some," I said, "You and Mulrooney will just have to trust me. You likely to have left any prints around?" Howard held up his hands. He was wearing thin leather gloves. "What about him?" I asked, pointing at Weasel.

"Doesn't matter much if he has---never had his prints taken. He hasn't been in the military and he's never been arrested."

"First, we get that cage open." I pointed to one of the comatose girls, the one with a beauty spot. "Look familiar?"

"Kathleen Hennessy."

"Right, we keep her out of this. We'll take her to Mulrooney. I'm sure he's got a doctor or two in his pocket who'll treat her and keep their lips zipped. Got a key?" Howard shook his head so I went to where Arnold was lying still like a good little Weasel and prodded him in the ribs with the toe of my shoe. "You wanna keep breathing, punk?"

The Weasel grunted assent. I lifted him up bodily, slamming him against the wall. A stream of fresh blood was flowing from his much-maltreated nose. "Okay, behave, do what I say, and you might make it out of here," I told him, "You're supposed to be a good locksmith, so get that lock opened."

Arnold took a small leather case from an inside pocket, produced two or three thin tools and had the lock opened in what seemed like seconds. "So you do have some use," I said, "Stand there and don't move. I'm not finished with you yet."

We carried Kathleen out of the cage and then I told Weasel, "Right, now lock the cage again."

"What about the other girls?" Howard complained.

"We let the cops get them out."

"You're calling in the cops? What the hell---"

"Howard," I said patiently, "I told you to trust me. You were a good soldier, you know the value of advance strategy." I turned to the Weasel and held out my hand for his signing-on envelope. "Give!" There was probably a couple of grand inside, more than I'd have thought he was worth. I handed it back intact.

"Arnold, I'm going to give you some good advice and I suggest you listen hard. Stop playing Jimmy Cagney because you're not cut out for a mobster's life. There's a lot of people out there who are not as nice as me or Howard or Mulrooney. I'm talking the kind of people who'd hang you up by the ankles and tickle you to death slowly with a blow-torch because they'd think it funnier than The Jack Benny Programme, or stick an ice-pick up your pecker while they give you a manicure with bolt-cutters, or drop you in the harbour in cement overshoes and no breathing apparatus. I don't think you'll like that. I suggest you take that money and get on a long-distance train, maybe to the coast or somewhere. Know any place?"

"Got an old uncle in Arizona," he mumbled.

"Then go there, forget being a big-time hood and set up as a locksmith--that's all you're good for. Now get the hell out of here before I kick your ass so hard your eyes'll bulge!"

Carefully skirting the late Giselle, he got the hell out. My next action had Howard shaking his head. I picked up the chair I'd been cuffed to and swung it at the padlock several times before throwing it aside. "If I didn't know better, Sam, I'd think you'd gone nuts."

"I've got my reasons," I told him, "May need to explain my prints. Wiping them would look suspicious. How often do I have to say 'Trust me'?"

Minutes later Howard brought his jalopy round and we made the girl as comfortable as possible in the back. I didn't need to tell Howard to drive carefully so as not to attract the attention of a patrol car. I reckon I'd have had to drum it into the Weasel with a club, one with a nail in the end. "You especially fond of this pop-gun?" I asked, showing him the Lilliput. He shrugged. "Right, then we field-strip it and throw the separate bits in different parts of the river. And find a pay-phone to call Mulrooney. Tell him to be at the office when we get there." Howard didn't argue with me giving the orders. Military discipline, I guess.

"One thing," I said when we were on our way, "Would you have gone over to Gleeson and killed me?"

We were passing several street-lights at the time and I think I saw him half-smile. "Maybe I was tempted to join him for a while but not when I saw what his main business was. As for you..." again that half-smile, "...No. You don't know this, Sam, but I owe you big time. My whole family does. That girl you saved from rape, she's my niece, my sister's daughter."