But Not For Me Read online

  Dominic carefully placed the papers in specific spots around the table—apparently, there was some kind of order to the table’s disarray. “Hello, Phil.” For a moment more his gaze lingered on the papers, and then rose to meet mine. He pulled the mushy cigar from his mouth. “Holy shit, man, you go ten rounds with Max Baer?”

  I tried not to smile. “You should see the three dames who a ssaulted me.”

  “I’d like to.” Dominic stood and looked across the room. “Jimmy?”

  A young man popped his head out from the cases. “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you please collate these chronologically and bring them up to my office?”

  “Now, sir? I’m still looking for that post-Civil War piece you asked for.”

  “After you track that one down will be fine.” He motioned to me. “C’mon, let’s go up to my office.”

  As we reached the top of the stairs I glanced over at Virginia’s desk. She wasn’t there. I kept a lookout for her scarlet mop as I followed Dom across the city desk. If she had been on that floor, I’d have spotted her. Don’t know why they call it the city desk, for there’s dozens of them in one large open room. It smelled of tobacco and over-heated coffee. Each time I had visited, a pleasant hum of activity hit me as I opened the door: the chatter of voices and the ring of telephones, more telephones in one room than I had ever seen before. There were no offices except along the far wall, just desks lined up in neat rows like soldiers at inspection. The crisscrossing aisles held a volume of foot traffic that rivaled the cars on Twelfth Street at 5 p.m.

  We made our way through the Star’s city desk village to Dominic’s office against the north wall. Dominic left his office door open. He once told me he liked the place’s chatter. Inside I took the seat across from his desk with my back to the large pane of glass that allowed Dominic to view the room’s activity and vice-versa. “Got anything for me?”

  “Yep.”

  “So give.”

  Dom took a deep breath like he was going to spill the beans all in one sentence. Then he exhaled. “Look, we been pals for quite a while, right?”

  I nodded my head. “’Bout ten years.”

  “And I’ve helped you before, right?”

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was moving. “You bet, Dom, and I’ve helped you too. Your paper’s been privy to a lot of dirt I’ve spaded up. We’re both scratching backs here.”

  He leaned way back, balancing the chair on two legs like a small-circuit circus performer. “Now don’t get your bloomers in a bunch. You’re reading what’s not there.” His foot intermittently tapped his desk drawer to keep the chair from falling. Otherwise, for several seconds at a time, it balanced almost perfectly. “Like I told you before, the interns could have been busy for a month on Big Tom alone. And I already knew most of what they would have found anyway.”

  It seemed he wasn’t going to stonewall so I kept my yap shut.

  “So I just had them check out the boy and your man Palmisano over the last three years.”

  “Okay.” I waited.

  The chair wobbled precariously when a foot tap over corrected. “Here’s the way we’re gonna play it so we don’t waste away the whole day. You ask me questions, and I’ll help you to the extent the Star can.”

  I shrugged. “House rules. You mind where I start?”

  “Start with the old man.”

  “Okay. What does the Star have on the old man’s gambling or his gambling debts?”

  Still precariously perched, Dom looked perplexed. “Gambling debts? Nothing. Everybody in town knows he scored big on a pony race a few years ago. Snoopy Susan wrote something about it in a column back then.”

  Snoopy Susan was a pet name the Star’s employees called Susan Sanderson. She penned a weekly gossip column called Susan Sanderson Around Town. It was strictly highbrow society stuff. In fact, more than once I’d heard Dom refer to her as Snooty Susan.

  “But nothing about gambling debts?” I said.

  “Nope. You got a story for us?”

  “Maybe. It’ll have to wait, though. What about his relationship with the boy? They on good terms or they on the outs?”

  “The Star doesn’t have much on that. We know the father has done what he needed to do to keep the kid out of the hoosegow and off the front pages, though.” He rocked back and forth, his foot on the desk providing the impetus. “But it seems the boy has straightened up in the last eighteen months. And either he’s stopped hanging out with those Irish mob kids, or our sources inside the police department need updating.”

  “Okay. Anything recent I should know about the kid?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know.”

  “Gee, Dom, I’m glad I’m not paying for this info.”

  “You didn’t ask me about the wop yet.”

  “Did I just hear an American of Italian descent call another American of Italian descent a wop?”

  He grinned. “Some of us are wops. Besides, Palmisano’s a Sicilian.”

  “Okay, what about Palmisano?”

  “Murphy in Features has gabbed with our interns. Murphy’s been working on a piece about the mob war. You familiar?”

  “Somewhat. Go on.”

  “Turns out our wop’s a real warrior. Palmisano started with the Black Hand as a teenager running protection.”

  “Black Hand?” That term was new to me.

  “Yeah, Murphy says that’s what they were called when they first came over from Sicily and settled in the Northtown. At first, they extorted money only from their own people, the Sicilian immigrants. Apparently, Sicilian mobsters have been extorting hard working Sicilians over there for a long time. It’s a time-honored tradition of sorts.”

  Someone walking by waved. Dom smiled and nodded. He looked back at me. “Now where was I?”

  “The Black Hand extorting people in Sicily.”

  “Oh, yeah. Some immigrants came to American, in part, to escape the custom. But unfortunately, the practice matriculated over with the immigrants. Black Hand comes from the mobster’s extortion letters to the poor schmuck immigrants, which included a black ink handprint—the black hand of death to any who squealed or didn’t pay-up.” Dom’s grin grew. He was enjoying himself.

  “So Palmisano started at the bottom with the Black Hand and worked his way up a notch or two. But once Prohibition began, his star streaked when the Sicilians horned in on the Irish mob’s gambling, booze, and prostitution. And by then they had already branched out beyond picking solely on their own countrymen”

  Jimmy, the kid from downstairs, cleared his throat at Dominic’s office door. Dom brought his chair forward on all fours. “Come in, Jimmy.” The kid had a stack of newsprint in his hands.

  “Here you are, Mr. Goucher. Chronological just like you asked. And I put the Civil War piece on top.”

  “Good job, Jimmy. Put them over on the file cabinet.”

  The kid did as he was told and started to leave.

  “Say, Jimmy?”

  “Yes, Mr. Goucher?”

  “You were with me when we went up to Murphy’s office and went through his dope on Tony Palmisano.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you make of him?” Dom asked.

  “Not the kind of man I’d want to run into after dark, sir.”

  Dominic nodded, pleased. “Okay, Jimmy; that’s all for now.”

  The kid hurried out, and Dom leaned forward. “Palmisano was a regular hero of the Mob War. He and his squad made life miserable for the Micks, and made life end for more than a few of them.” He opened a drawer, pulled out two fresh Roi-Tan cigars and handed me one. He struck a match across a worn spot on the top of his desk. He lit mine, shook the match out without lighting his own. He began to chew his Roi-Tan more than delicately. I lifted my eyebrows.

  “Wife says I gotta cut down on my smoking. Now, where were we?”

  “Palmisano making life miserable for the Irish.”

  “Bingo. By the time the marke
t crashed, Palmisano was one of Lazzeri’s two chief lieutenants. And he’d branched out into the drug trade. Two years ago the other lieutenant was killed by a hit and run driver. Bingo! Now he’s number two.”

  “I heard he was big on violence, both delegated and in person,” I said.

  “We can’t confirm that of course. If we could, we’d print it and the mobsters know we would. But Palmisano’s bad news, Phil. And he’s got the Irish mob on the run. They’re insignificant now that Prohibition’s over.”

  He leaned back again, recommencing his circus act. “Leastways they were.” Smugness lit up his cigar-chomping face, and his balance was perfect.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hear about the fire last night?” Miraculously, he maintained his two-chair-legged balance. So that was what newspaper men did all day.

  “Yeah, I saw the fire. Rusty Callahan and I drove by it on the way home from the Plaza.” I didn’t mention our hospital stop.

  “Know what burned?”

  “I heard it was some booze warehouse.”

  “Not just some booze warehouse, the biggest in Kansas City, maybe the biggest west of Chicago. And it was owned by the Lazzeri mob. And now that it’s toast, KC’s largest liquor warehouse is owned by—”

  “Mike Leary’s mob?”

  Dom rocked on two legs and chewed his cigar. “Exactamento, my good man.”

  “Arson?”

  “Don’t know. And if the police know they aren’t saying yet. We’ve got our boys all over it. But it does change the dynamics of the mob war a bit.”

  “Interesting,” I said. And it was. Very. I didn’t know if it changed anything about the search for the kid, but the warehouse fire changed things for life in general around Kansas City. And not just the price of booze. Nothing lends a town that special touch of ambiance like a nice bloody mob war.

  I took a drag of the crunchy, slightly stale Roi-Tan and blew a stream at the smoke-stained ceiling. “Did you know that Tommy Holloway was working for Tony Palmisano?”

  Dominic went over backwards, his plunge sudden and unchecked. The chair hit the floor as his head hit the back wall. A framed diploma from the University of Missouri plummeted and landed next to him, glass shattering. Laughter rang out. Outside the office, people stood and peered and there was a smattering of applause.

  Dominic rolled away from the broken glass, brushed a few shards off his suit and stood. He grinned at the onlookers and offered them his favorite digit. Laughter notched up briefly, and then the city desk returned to business. Dominic righted his chair, checked it for stray shards and sat.

  “What did you just say?”

  “You didn’t hear me?”

  “No,” Dom said. “That was rhetorical. The kid is wrapped up with Palmisano and the Lazzeri mob?”

  “Yep.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “That’s the thing, Dommy. I’m on a case, a confidential one. I shouldn’t have blabbed what I already have—very unprofessional.” I flicked the cigar’s long ash in his ashtray.

  “So you can’t give me anything else, Phil?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nothing?” he pleaded.

  “Nope, but within the next few days I’m liable to dump a doozy in your lap, something that might be picked up by the AP and the UPA wires.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Sounds like you’re setting me up for something, Phil.”

  “Nope, just proposing a little back scratching. Here’s the deal: you help with my case without knowing what it’s about and I get you the story of the year. Who knows, maybe a Pulitzer.”

  He laughed, not a laugh for show, but one of genuine humor. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, nobody ever said you didn’t have balls. Okay, what do we gotta do for this story and our Pulitzer?”

  It was my turn to laugh. I reached into my suit coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, plopped it on the desk and slid it over to him. Dom leaned forward, grabbed and unfolded it.

  “That’s got my office and home phone numbers, and the home and office phone numbers for Rusty Callahan who’s working the case with me,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah? I know Mr. Callahan.”

  “Right. Here’s what we need. I want you to reach out all the Star’s tentacles within your control. Anything they hear about Palmisano, Tommy Holloway, or a young lady named Beverly Cresto—anything. Have them call you anytime, night or day.”

  “More interesting all the time. Who’s Beverly Cresto?”

  “That’s a good question. Okay, so they call you and you try me first, then Rusty. If you get no answers, write a note and sign it and seal it and send someone trustworthy to my flat. Have them slide it under the door. Make sure they slide it all of the way under.” Dom’s head tilted sideways like a kid’s might while working a tough math problem.

  “Say, this doesn’t have anything to do with Nazis, does it?”

  “No Nazis. And after leaving the note, have Virginia keep trying to reach me.”

  He lit his well-chewed cigar and puffed its tip up nice and red. “You know Virginia?”

  “Just met her the other day.”

  “She’s got a boyfriend, Phil. I don’t want you screwing around with her.”

  “Message received. Do we have a deal on this? Can you help me?”

  He thought about it for a moment, tipped his ash, one end of his cigar a mushy mess. “This stinks, you know, not knowing what’s going on, what we’re getting ourselves into.”

  “Good, you’ll do it.” I offered my right hand to shake on it.

  He held his right hand up like a cop stopping traffic. “One condition. If we’re using our resources to bird dog all of this information for you, it’s only fair that we can investigate at the same time. And if we figure out, fair and square, what it is you’re up to, we have the option to run with it.”

  He had me. “Only fair, Dom. But do me a favor. Should that happen, you’ll let me know before you go to print.”

  “You got it.” We shook on it. I ground my cigar out and started to walk out of his office. I stopped and turned.

  “Say, know any reason Detroit police detectives would be in town snooping around?”

  “No. Are they?”

  “Yep. Add that to your snooping around list, too.”

  “Will do,” he said, and I walked out across the city room.

  At her desk Virginia watched me walk across the city room. Both her smile and her blush were in full bloom. I gave her a big grin and a “Good day, Miss Mathers.”

  Twenty minutes later I pulled into a parking spot on the street in front of the Rawlston building. After I shut off the Plymouth, and while it sputtered and spewed, refusing to go down easy, I pulled out my watch. I had just under an hour before I met Colleen.

  In the lobby, Henry waited for passengers.

  “Morning, Henry.”

  “Morning, Phil.” That big toothy grin of his and the way he emphasized the “Phil,” made me realize that he had most likely never called a white man by his first name. The thought troubled me. We stepped into the elevator.

  “Three?” Henry asked.

  “Yep. See anything fishy this morning?”

  “No, suh, Phil, everybody here belongs here.”

  “Good. How’s the boy doing? Chet still mired in his slump?”

  “No, suh! Chester got six hits, one a home run, when the Elite Giants was in town this week. The boy, he in Chicago for a weekend series now. Don’t know how he done last night in Chicago but he’s feeling good again. Got his average back up over .290. Thas the last ballgames of the year. He be home next week.”

  Henry’s youngest boy, Chet, played left field for the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro National League. The Monarchs were a formidable team. Their pitching staff, anchored by Bullet Joe Rogan and Satchel Paige, was as good as any in baseball, white or black.

  He slowed the lift as we neared the third floor. “That’s
great, Henry. Seems nobody can keep your boy down long.” I patted his shoulder. “You must be a proud papa.”

  “I am. Mighty proud.” He eased her to a perfect stop. “Say, Phil, when you gonna find a girl to marry so’s you can have your own kids?”

  He slid the gate open, and as I exited and turned down the hallway I waved my hand and called out, “Don’t hold your breath, Henry.” His laughter followed me down the hall.

  When I reached the office door, a light glowed behind its opaque glass, but the door was locked. Good girl.

  “Morning, Jill,” I said once the lock was negotiated and the door swung open.

  “Morning, Boss.”

  “Any news?”

  “Yeah, Rusty called, and so did someone from the police and, oh my god, what happened to you!”

  This was getting old. “Nothing, really; it’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? Oh, you poor boy.” She hopped out of her chair and came around her desk to meet me. She examined my head, touched it gently, then pressed the peak of one of the lumps.

  “Ow!” I pulled my head away. “Jill, I’m all right, okay?”

  “You can’t be all right. You look terrible.” And the way her brow creased and her lips scrunched she looked like a worried mother, reminded me of mine back in the day.

  “You should see Rusty,” I said.

  She grabbed my arm, led me into my office and sat me down in my chair while she crouched beside me. Her hands battled with her brain, the hands wanting to touch and nurse, the brain knowing I would blow my stack. “What happened?”

  I took her hands in mine—as much in self-defense as anything else—and stood, causing her to rise too. Then with a tight hold on her dangerous digits, I sat on the edge of the desk. “Here’s the deal: Rusty and I were poking around the Plaza last night looking for Beverly Cresto, or news of her. Some thugs jumped us, four of them.”

  She looked near tears. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  I shook my head slow and easy. “Nah, they didn’t want to kill us. They were only sending a message.”

  Jill’s brows furrowed. “What message?”

  “Forget about Beverly Cresto.”

  “You report it to the police?”

  I chuckled. “No, but they sure enough know about it.”