Just Another Day

"So, from a decent family saving your presence. Then what the hell was she doing in that area?"

"You know what some kids are like. Tell them not to do something so they go straight out and do it, not stopping to think you might have had a damned good reason. Cindy always was a bit wild. Together with her folks, I told her all the areas in the city to steer clear of. Then one of her classmates told her that was a fun area to visit, don't mind what the old folks at home say, they know jack-shit. So of course... Well, she's learned her lesson the hard way."

"If it's any consolation to her, those punks should pull twenty-five to life."

"You know, Sam, somehow I don't think they'll even make it through a full twelve months, if that." Yeah, Howard was right. He and Mulrooney would have friends in the pen, the kind of friends who could turn a shaving-brush into a weapon of mass destruction.

Mulrooney was waiting for us. We carefully laid Katherine on his office couch and he said he'd call a tame medic and nurse to help her before getting her home. Howard explained briefly what had happened and handed his sealed envelope to Mulrooney.

"What's this?"

"Bribe money from Gleeson to work for him."

Mulrooney ripped the envelope open and a lot of used notes fell out, mostly portraits of good old Ben Franklin, maybe about five grand's worth. He pushed the money towards Howard. "Guess you've earned this."

Howard shook his head. "No thanks, boss. That money's tainted now I know how he made it."

Mulrooney shrugged and turned to me, offering the bundle of notes. Sure, I was tempted but I couldn't let a West Pointer outdo me in chivalry. I went along with Howard. "It's dirty. I'll be happy with my standard fee and expenses. Of course, if Hennessy wants to give me a generous bonus on top in clean money, I won't be so churlish as to refuse."

"Send me your account and I'll see there's a good bonus, Sam." Mulrooney sniffed and prodded the pile of notes. "Guess I could keep this but you two would put me to shame. What say I give it anonymously to the children's hospital?" Howard had pinned it---his boss was kind of moral in a funny sort of way. It was a unanimous decision.

"Now, Sam," he went on, "What's this about calling the cops?"

I explained what I had in mind and when I finished both men nodded in agreement. "Yeah, put like that it sounds good. Leave it with you, Sam. By the way..." nodding in Howard's direction "...we've got Abbot here, where the hell's Costello? Getting his goddam nose fixed again?"

"Arnold's probably leaving town, boss," Howard said, "On medical advice for the good of his health."

Mulrooney bared tobacco-stained teeth in a cynical grin. "Wouldn't have figured you two having been to medical school. Good thing, I suppose. The little asshole was fucking useless. Sooner or later we'd have been digging him out of a dumpster---or putting him in one."

I left them to it and hailed a cab to make my way back to the derelict bank. The rain had started, getting damned near biblical proportions. I had the cabbie drop me several streets away, making the rest on foot and getting pretty damp while at it. Still, that would back my story up. I looked around and found a pay phone not too far from the bank to put in a call to Lyle in Homicide. It would have looked very suspicious if there hadn't been a handy phone nearby. Neglecting the minor points has sent many a dumb fuck to Old Sparky.

You know, it can be the little things in life that make you laugh. There's a writer guy called Chandler in California has just published a book and it's got a line something like 'Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean'. All I can say between laughs is 'Bullshit!' I spend a lot of time going down mean streets and I can be one mean sonofabitch myself. Have to be else I'd have been dead a long time back...

* * * * *

...and that's how come Lyle Garrett and I were standing in a downpour watching some little old lady with a lethal umbrella chasing a busybody down the road.

Lyle's hands were buried in his coat-pockets so he pointed with his chin towards the two who were disappearing round a corner. "There's got to be a moral there," he mused.

"Yeah," I said, "It's don't fuck with little old ladies carrying umbrellas."

Lyle nodded then said, "Well Sam, guess you didn't call me out this time of night in the rain to get some fresh air and enjoy the local cabaret so what have you got for me...?"

"This way..." I led Lyle to the old building.

"Hey, this used to be the old Trust & Gain Deposit Bank," said Lyle, "What's in here?"

I pulled the mini flashlight I always carry from my coat pocket and used it to find the master light-switch. All the fluorescent ceiling lights flickered then came on at once, dazzling after the darkness outside.

"Jesus!" hissed Lyle. He strolled over to look at the first corpse, little pools of rain dripping from his coast and forming around his feet. "Well, bless me! Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. You know him, Sam?"

I joined him. "Yeah, it's that scumbag Albie Gleeson. Self-styled master criminal."

"Something's wrong here, something missing," Lyle said, looking round, "I know... Where's The Ogre?"

"Heard he had a nasty accident. Won't be around much for a while."

"Good," Lyle nodded approval, "Did you waste Gleeson, Sam?"

"Lyle, you know I carry a .45. Does that look like a .45 hole? If I'd done it there'd be blood and brains everywhere."

"Sorry, Sam, I had to ask." Lyle wandered over to Giselle's prone body. "You know this one?"

Was that a trick question? Come on Lyle, I thought, I'm too old a hand for that kind of trap. "I might if I could see her face," I said. Lyle bent and gently turned the dead woman's head so her full face was on show "Yeah, now I do. Her name's Giselle Campion. I met her at the Community College when I was checking something for a client---she's an administrator, or was. Don't know what she'd be doing in this set-up. There's more, Lyle, over here." I took him to the cage and pulled down the ragged drapes.

"Holy shit! Are they alive or dead?" He shook his head briefly. "I think I can see a couple breathing. Must all be drugged up to the eyeballs. How'd you find this, Sam?"

"I was tailing a guy hoping he might lead me to a missing person." Well, that part was close enough to the truth. "Private client wants to serve divorce papers," I added to avoid any awkward questions. "I kept well back because in this rain the street was almost empty and I didn't want to be spotted. Lost him somewhere around here. Whoever was in this place last left the lights on so I got nosy and took a look. Found this lot. Then I looked for the master-switch, turned the lights off and called you."

"And what do you make of it?"

I flipped a hand towards the cage. "Looks like a sex-slave racket. Gleeson and the woman both have small calibre wounds to the head. Maybe a Mob hit, I suppose, though I can't think why they left those girls here. Gleeson was known for poking his nose into the wrong places, trying to muscle in on other people's business. Wonder no-one's wasted him before. I can't guess why the woman is here unless she pulled in college kids for whoever's running this racket. Better get some ambulances along for these girls. I tried that padlock, it's solid. You'll need special equipment or a lock expert to get it open."

"Sticking his nose into a Mob racket? Could be," Lyle agreed, "That's one hell of a gamble, though. I don't suppose we'll find your prints anywhere in here, Sam?" He may be my friend but he's also all cop.

"You'll find them everywhere," I told him, "On the light switch. I handled the padlock trying to open it." I pointed to the abandoned metal office chair. "I used that to bash the padlock---didn't work. I shouldn't rely too much on prints, Lyle. Remember, before it closed this was a public business. There must be hundreds of thousands of random prints all over."

Lyle sighed glumly. "You're right, Sam. Will you stay on guard while I call this in? There a pay phone round here?" Another trick or trap?

"Next street corner," I said, "Something else before you go. My snitch said that maybe Baaker was working for Gleeson. Could be others in the precinct. If you dig deep enough you might turn up more than worms."

While Lyle was away, I had a think. I couldn't report the Bronsteen connection to the local cops. A call from his oak-panelled office to the Mayor's pine-panelled office to the Chief of Police's plain old plaster-walled office to a precinct commander and any investigation would be killed stone dead before it started. Instead I'd tip off the Feds. The state line ran through several of the city's outer suburbs so if any of those kidnapped girls came even an inch from another state, taking them across a state line for immoral purposes would make a good holding charge for Bronsteen while the Feds dug deeper.

When Lyle returned he said, "There's a couple of my teams on the way with the meat-wagon and several ambulances. ME's coming too. I've called the local Feebie SAC too. This is obviously abduction so it's a Federal offence. You want to skip, Sam? I can call it in as an anonymous tip-off."

I shook my head. "Better not. If they did find my prints here it'd look suspicious if I left."

Lyle nodded so we lit cigarettes and smoked quietly while waiting for the various crews.

* * * * *

I was very happy with the check I'd had from Thomas Hennessy. Thanks to Mulrooney, the recommended bonus was very generous. Furthermore, when Hennessy was told that Miranda had been murdered while helping to find his daughter, he said that he would pay for her funeral and a head-stone.

I was sitting in my office, feet on the desk, smoking a thoughtful cigarette and sipping a thoughtful Scotch (it was 11:05 in the a.m.), feeling both sad and guilty for Miranda but pleased that Thomas Hennessy was showing his gratitude in a practical way. In addition I was having an unprofessional feeling of smug satisfaction for other reasons.

Round about now a combined team of FBI and IRS agents would be descending on Bronsteen's office and home with Federal search warrants. The fancy mouthpiece he kept on retainer would soon have to start earning his excessive stipend. At the same time, and following an anonymous tip-off, IA would be bringing in Laurel and Hardy for questioning (I don't know if Hardy was involved but if not, the shaking up would do him good---might even persuade him to look for different work).

There was an extra little thing to look forward to. I could hardly wait to see The Bugle's front page the next day. It was too much to hope they'd roast their owner but I could dream.

So there I was when Cara returned from vacation. She glared at the Scotch but said nothing. Instead she slipped my hat off and hung it up. Knew it, had to happen sometime. At least she gave me a kiss on the forehead.

"What sort of week have you had, Sam?" she asked.

I didn't see any point to spoiling her post-vacation mood immediately. I could bring her up to speed later in the day. So, what sort of week had I had? "Quiet," I said, "yeah, quiet. You know how it goes. Mostly just another day in the office..."

The End