But Not For Me Read online

  “The fucking table’s not level,” he shouted to the whole bar as he arrived. Rusty looked at me straight-faced, his amusement limited to his eyes. We both stood as the kid approached. Rusty made the introduction.

  “Brad, this is my good friend, Phil Morris.” He turned to me, “Phil, meet Brad Shea.” Shea and I shook hands and we all sat down.

  “Mickey, bring me another Schlitz,” the kid shouted without turning around to look Mickey’s way.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Shea,” Mickey said from behind the bar.

  The Shea kid put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He looked from me to Rusty and back to me. “Phil Morris, where have I heard that name before?” He pulled out a silver cigarette case and opened it, clutched a cigarette, then flipped it end-over-end, catching it in his lips – a pretty nifty trick. “Phil Morris?” He looked up at the patina-coated tin ceiling as if his answer was written up there somewhere.

  I thought I knew what was coming, another tired Morris cigarette joke. I was wrong.

  His eyes returned from the ceiling, glowing. He pointed at me his finger was a pistol, and said, “Say, you’re the one that gave Colin Hardy lead poisoning yesterday!”

  “It was him or me, Mr. Shea. Besides, he killed my dog.”

  He laughed. “Call me Brad.”

  “Okay, Brad. Mr. Hardy pointed a rod at me and meant to use it.”

  Shea lit his cigarette, tossed the match on the floor and blew a lungful of smoke at my forehead. The kid could use a lesson in manners. Rusty looked amused. “Listen, I’m glad you popped the fucker, saved me the effort,” Shea said, holding his cigarette case out to me. I shook my head and produced a pack of Luckies, tapped one out, and struck a match on my thumbnail. He nodded and clapped his case closed. “The pig-fucking traitor had it coming.”

  Shea twisted around toward the pool tables. “Hey guys, this is the Joe that plugged Colin Hardy,” he shouted. They glanced our way and a couple of them raised their glasses. Some looked like Santa Claus had just come down the chimney.

  Rusty didn’t appear surprised at their joyous reaction. “So you and Hardy weren’t exactly best buddies?” I asked the kid. Mickey showed up with a brown bottle of Schlitz and Shea took the bottle and waved Mickey away.

  The kid pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. He’d been chewing it like a cigar. He ground the slobbered stick into the ash tray and spat bits of tobacco on the floor beside him. “Fucking cigarettes.” He glugged down half of the beer, ran his hands through his slicked back black hair and wiped them on his powder-blue vest.

  “Colin Hardy used to work for my dad and Mike Leary. He greased wheels and expedited financial matters. He was good at it. And he was well paid.” Another gulp of beer. “Then the fucker started branching out on his own, including some work for that prick Lazzeri, who was horning in on our business interests. Mike and Dad had a talk with Hardy and told him he needed to drop the moonlighting.” He downed the remaining Schlitz, held up the bottle and waved it.

  “Mickey, another, pronto.” The kid slapped the bottle down. “Then the bastard dropped us. He fucking dropped us and went over to Lazzeri. He’s been doing their dirty work while Lazzeri puts the squeeze on us.” Shea let out a loud belch. “But you fixed him.”

  “Well, he did kill my dog.”

  Both Rusty and the kid laughed at that.

  I poured Rusty and me another Irish whiskey. Our eyes met and he nodded, time to get busy. I leaned forward. “Rusty and I hope you can help us out with a problem, Brad.”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “We’re trying to find Tommy Holloway.”

  Shea said nothing. He stared thunderbolts at me.

  “We’d heard you two were pals,” I said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “But I’ve seen you two together downing shots right here at Mickey’s,” Rusty said.

  “Eat shit, Rusty. We’re done here.” He started to stand and I grabbed his arm, held it firm.

  “Now hold on, pal,” I said. We stood together, my hand on his upper arm. Rusty sat there relaxed, sipping whiskey. “We meant no offense. Just a couple of questions. You don’t even have to answer them if you don’t want to.” I released my grip and sat down. Still fuming, Shea stood above me, then he sat too, and as he did he reached down to his ankle brought something up in his hand and flicked open a blade. He laid a five-inch knife on the table and rested his hand over it.

  “I don’t wanna talk about that punk.”

  “But you were friends?”

  He stared at me, picked up the knife and flipped it from his right hand to his left and back again—a cheap hoodlum’s trick—then set it back down on the table. “You’re not listening, Morris.”

  The punk was sure that I was shaking in my shoes, about to piss my pants. I pulled out the .38 and set it down opposite the kid’s knife. “Listen, Mr. Shea. I’m going to say my piece and you don’t have to speak another word.” The pool playing had stopped. The boys were all watching, a couple of them holding their cues in a way that had nothing to do with the game.

  “But I’m going to have my say without anybody playing mumbleypeg on the table here, and without any problems from the peanut gallery over there.” I held out my open palms peaceable-like.

  Shea folded his arms, leaving the knife on the table. “Where’d you find this clown, Rusty?” he said, nodding towards me. The pool players snickered at the kid’s bravado.

  Shea had showed his boys how tough he was, so I began. “Tommy Holloway has been missing for more than a week, Mr. Shea.” The kid sighed and wiped a mock tear from his eye. I continued. “Mr. Holloway hired me to find him or what became of him. You two used to run together, and I already know he’s been hanging around with Tony Palmisano.”

  I leaned back in my chair and looked over at Rusty, who still wore a small smile. The peanut gallery had moved closer, more to hear better than as a threat. “If someone has harmed Tommy Holloway, his father won’t be too happy. If it was Palmisano or some of Lazzeri’s mob that harmed him, then Mr. Holloway will want to know about it, and it won’t go so well for those folks, same way if you and your friends harmed Tommy.”

  “Now, I can be a really good friend to have, Mr. Shea. Ask Rusty.” Rusty offered a nod. “And Rusty will tell you that you don’t want me as your enemy. Same with Mr. Holloway. I can either tell Mr. Holloway how helpful you have been, or I can tell him you clammed up. Up to you.”

  He just sat there.

  I picked up the rod and slid it back in my coat pocket, downed my drink and grabbed my hat off the chair next to me. I slipped Rusty a fin. “I got this tab, Rusty. Why don’t you settle up with Mickey and we’ll blow this joint.”

  “Sure thing, Phil.” He started to rise.

  “Wait a second.” Shea held up his hand. Rusty sat back down. “Fellas, when’s the last time anyone saw Tommy Holloway?” the kid asked the gallery. They all exchanged glances. Shea nodded at them and jerked his head at me.

  “Me and Eddie saw him at the Jazz clubs, Brad,” one of them said. “It was a week ago Sunday.”

  “Who was he with?” I asked. The peanut turned to Shea, raised his eyebrows.

  “Answer our friend’s questions,” Shea said.

  “He was with one of Palmisano’s boys, and another guy I didn’t recognize. Oh yeah, and a dame, a pretty blonde. I ain’t never seen the dame or the other fella before.”

  I thanked him and turned to Shea. I wondered what had happened between them that busted up their friendship and why Tommy began hanging out with the Lazzeri mob. So I asked.

  “Fuck if I know. One night about six weeks ago we went to the Chesterfield Club to watch that colored group with that great nigger piano player …”

  “Count Basie?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. He really bangs the keys. So the place is packed and we’re all having a good time. Across the room is a table of Lazzeri’s boys, and Palmisano’s one of them.” Shea pulls out his silver case
out and starts chewing on another butt. “Tommy tells us to watch this, and he gets up and strolls over to the table like he’s some kind of big shot.” Shea lit his butt, exhaled smoke and spit bits of tobacco on the floor.

  “Well, we figured he was showing off, you know, trying to act like some big shot. We also figured Tommy was about to start something that me and the boys might have to finish. Tommy’s been known to take on a whole table of lugs.” The peanut gallery murmured their assent.

  “So what happened, Mr. Shea?”

  “Tommy ends up laughing and joking with them and they fetch a chair for him. He’s there the rest of the night, and instead of leaving with me, he goes off in Palmisano’s bucket. He traitored. He fucking traitored.” The kid flipped his half-smoked cigarette, and I watched it skitter across the floor. “Before long he was Palmisano’s little errand boy.”

  “So you see why I didn’t want to talk about that son of a bitch, Mr. Morris?”

  “Call me Phil, Brad. So why you think he turned on you guys that way?”

  “Fuck if I know. We were tight, pals since we were little kids. Tommy and I helped each other through a lot of scrapes, celled together in the cooler. We were tight. Fuck, first Colin Hardy, then Tommy; maybe that wop Palmisano is a hypnotizer.”

  I thanked him for the chat and passed my card across the table. “If you or your boys see Tommy or hear anything, I’d appreciate a call.” I gave Rusty another fin and told him to have Mickey set the boys up with another round.

  Outside, the sun had dipped below the buildings on Troost, and a chill was in the air. A cold front had rolled in from the north, and the clouds said they would bring rain by morning. Rusty and I stopped between our cars.

  “You handled that pretty well,” Rusty said.

  “Thanks for all your help, Russ. Especially when he pulled the knife.”

  He grinned. “One should never underestimate moral support. And I was ready if you decided to tangle with the whole gang.”

  “Gee whiz, Russ, I wouldn’t want you to break a nail.”

  “Just had ’em trimmed, buddy boy.” He pulled his keys out. “What’s next?”

  I told him that I would try to gab with Tony Palmisano and no, I didn’t need him to tag along with his moral support.

  “Okay, but you keep your powder dry if you’re traipsing up north of the river into Lazzeri Land.” As Rusty turned toward his car, one of the pool players, a big one, emerged from the side alley. I readied for trouble. Rusty stopped and struck a Napoleon Bonaparte pose, one hand inside his coat.

  “Psst, over here.” The kid motioned us into the alley, away from Mickey’s front windows. Warily, we obliged.

  “Listen, I met Tommy last Tuesday at the Krazy Kat two nights after Corky saw him and the Palmisano guy.” He kept glancing back at Mickey’s kitchen door. “We shared a cab, him and his date and me and mine.”

  “And who might you be?” Rusty asked.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said.

  “Yeah, it does,” I said. “We like to know who we’re dealing with just in case.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case we’re being setup or hoodwinked,” Rusty said while still holding the Bonaparte pose.

  The kid was nervous, nervous like he had his fingers in a light socket and worried someone would flip the switch. My name’s Martin, Martin Connors, and I’m pals with Tommy.” Rusty looked at me. We both recognized the name from Hannerty’s notes.

  “Why didn’t you speak up inside?” I asked.

  He glanced again behind him. “Because I am pals with Tommy, still am. The rest of the guys hate him as a traitor, especially Brad.”

  Rusty dropped the pose and lit a cigarette. “But you don’t. How come?”

  “Tommy and I’ve been pals as long as I can remember. Hell, we’re blood brothers since we were thirteen.” He raised his left palm which held an ancient scar an inch long in its soft-tissue center.

  “You don’t mind that he’s dancing to Palmisano’s tune now?” I asked.

  “No. I asked him about it several times.”

  “And?”

  “He reminded me how long we’ve been chums, and he held up his scarred palm. He told me to trust him.”

  “Do you?” I said.

  “I don’t know. But that night we had a good time, just like we used to. Tommy said he was making big money, and he knew what he was doing.”

  “Weren’t you worried that Brad and your friends would see you with him?” I said.

  “Yeah, I was. Tommy knew the spot he was putting me in. But he and his date knew a dive down in Westport. Nobody goes there.”

  “So, he say anything about how he was making those big bucks? And why with Palmisano?”

  “Funny you should ask,” the kid said. “I asked him the same thing—what the fuck was he doing with Palmisano to earn big money and why’s he dumping on his pals.” Rusty and I looked at each other and then back at the kid.

  “Tommy started to say something, but his date put her hand on his and frowned. Then he clammed up and changed the subject. But I figured all along that Tommy was running some kind of game on the wops.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, Tommy’s always working some kind of con on somebody.”

  Rusty and I swapped another glance. Rusty asked, “What about his date? Who was she?”

  The kid smiled “Never seen her before. Her name was Beverly, Beverly Cresting or Cresto or Crest-something. She said she worked at some restaurant in the Plaza. And she was a knockout, long blond hair and green eyes, real classy.” He hesitated, and then went on. “Those eyes, they were the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. My date caught me gawking once and pinched me hard in the nuts.”

  “Remember the name of the restaurant where she works?” Rusty asked.

  “No. I don’t spend much time in the Plaza.”

  I lit a cigarette and handed it to the kid. He nervously grabbed it and took a drag. “Look, I gotta get back in there.”

  “In a minute,” I said. “Remember anything else?”

  “They seemed cordial, but not lovey-dovey. Like it might be a first date.”

  “What else?”

  “When we left that Westport dive, Tommy started to give an address on 45th, but she jammed him hard in the ribs and Tommy told the cabbie to head to the Plaza. We dropped them off at 47th and Pennsylvania. They got out and walked north.”

  Rusty nodded. “You remember the 45th Street address?” he said.

  “No, sorry.”

  “Anything more you can remember about her?”

  He smiled for the first time. “She had nice tits. And she smelled good.” He turned again to the alley and said, “Look, I gotta get back before somebody comes looking for me.” He hurried down the alley and went inside.

  Rusty and I walked over to his car. Neither of us said anything.

  We leaned against his car and lit up. “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  Rusty took his time and savored his smoke. Rusty enjoyed drama. “I’m thinking we might want to have a conversation with our girl Beverly.”

  “Okay, Russ, why don’t you do some Plaza restaurant hopping. I’ll swing by the office and see if Jill can find anything on our mystery girl.” I flipped the spent Lucky into the gutter. “And then I’ll run up north of the river and look in on Palmisano. Why don’t you call the office between 4:00 and 4:30 and let me know what you found. In case I’m not back yet, I’ll tell Jill to expect your call.

  “Okay, boss.” Rusty’s spent Lucky joined mine, and he offered a theatrical salute.

  “Dismissed, soldier.”

  I found a good parking spot in front of the Rawlston building. As I entered, I pulled out my watch, popped open the cover—2:40. Jill normally left at 4:30 on Thursdays. Henry and his elevator were carrying customers. I pushed the call button and opened the silver cigarette case etched with my father’s initials. I selected my next victim and tapped it on the case. It was almost burning my
fingers by the time Henry showed. Two passengers exited.

  “Mr. Morris!”

  “Henry. Busy day?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Morris.”

  I ground the butt in the elevator’s pedestal ash tray as Henry slid the gate shut and began our ascent. He stopped the elevator between the second and third floors. He looked around the elevator like a snitch might do in one of those Cagney mob talkies.

  “Mr. Morris, ’bout an hour ago I seen something like what you asked me to watch fuh.”

  I pulled out my cigarette case, snapped it open and offered him one.

  “No, suh, don’t want no smoke.”

  I lit up again. “Tell me what you saw?”

  “Yes, suh, a man I ain’t never seen. ’Bout an hour ago. And he told me to take him up to the third floor. I asked him if he was new to the building or was he visiting someone.”

  “And what’d he say to that?”

  Henry’s mouth tightened. “The man, he say a little of both. Then he say that I was mighty nosy for a elevator boy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Then I remember what you told me: ‘Look, see, remember—but you don’t do nothing.’ So I kept my mouth shut.”

  Henry looked at his feet. “Good job, Henry. Can you tell me what this guy looked like?”

  “Yes, suh, I looked, I seen, and I remembered. He was short. See that Otis Elevator sign on the wall by the gate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all the further he came up to, even with his hat on. And he had a nice brown suit on, and shoes so shiny it looked like he was off to his wedding.” Henry thought for a moment. “And he kept his hat, one of them fedoras, pulled way down low like he was afraid someone would see how ugly he was.”

  The buzzer sounded. Someone had pushed it in the lobby. “I gots to get going now.”

  “Sure thing, Henry, take me on up before you go down.”

  “You get any kind of look at his face?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Morris, Henry did. It’s no wonder he pull his hat so low. He looked like his momma flattened his face with a shovel when he was jus’ a baby.”

  My stomach hollowed.

  “And one more thing, Mr. Morris.” I stuffed my half-smoked Lucky in the pedestal’s white sand and waited. “The man, he never came back down.”