But Not For Me Page 9

  She stammered an answer about being new and not knowing everyone. It smelled Kaw River-fishy.

  Once she left, I took a bite of the bread. There would be no need to bring my dinner. Just keep the bread coming. I saw Rusty smile at me over the chunk of bread I stuffed in my mouth.

  “She’s lying,” he said.

  I motioned to the basket. “Try the bread.”

  With a smirk, he selected a piece and surgically removed the soft center, leaving the crust ring on his plate.

  “Crust’s the best part,” I mumbled through my mouthful.

  He took the crust and tossed it like he was playing carnival ring toss. “Jack Sprat,” he said.

  I speared it with my forefinger. “Thanks, Missus Sprat.”

  Rusty waited while I crunched crust. “We gonna do anything about it?” he asked.

  I maneuvered the crust mouthful to one side like a tobacco chaw. “Let’s enjoy the meal and wine. Wait and see what comes of it. And we’ll keep our eyes open for someone who fits the description the kid gave.” I swallowed a bit of the masticated crust. “Whenever that bread girl’s out on the floor, we give her the evil eye and make sure she sees us doing it.”

  So we had us a fine time swilling the red and playing Jack Sprat with the bread. Before we emptied the basket, a different girl brought us another. Our first young lady was gone from the floor for a bit—smoke break, stool pigeon break? When she did return, we practiced surveillance techniques worthy of Kansas City’s finest. She stayed on the far side of the place and made it a point not to glance our way.

  Our meals came. It looked like brisket, tender and flaky, surrounded by tiny onions and slices of carrot. Spears of asparagus sprinkled with sesame seeds accompanied the entrée. The brisket tasted like it had been marinated in wine for a week. It’s a shame to waste a good cut of meat that way when a little smoke and barbecue sauce would have brought me to poetry. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t barbecue.

  We set to feeding, no talking, just plate cleaning. I caught the girl looking our way once, but she quickly turned away. Naturally, Rusty finished first and growled a long, low belch. He kept it civil, low enough to prevent any nearby head-turning. That was not always the case. My plate still held a few bites of roast and the bread in the basket rapidly waned when someone approached. As he neared our table, I recognized him, Detective Kerry Patterson. A man I didn’t know trailed him, not like a puppy trails a guy, but more like a Doberman. He stopped a few feet from our table. I stuffed a half slice of bread into my mouth.

  Rusty stood and offered his hand. “Why, Detective Patterson, long time no see. Simon murder case in ’32, right?”

  Patterson mumbled a single unintelligible syllable and didn’t offer his hand. Instead, he took the chair between us and motioned for the Doberman to take the opposite. He did.

  Rusty retrieved his unshaken hand and sat. “What brings us the singular honor of your presence, Detective? Certainly not the French cuisine.”

  I continued eating. I’d let Rusty handle the conversation. He already had the detective’s goat, which would have been my aim anyway.

  “Hear you two been looking for Beverly Cresto,” Patterson said.

  Rusty ignored the question. “Who’s your pal?” He motioned to the silent, stone-faced Doberman.

  Patterson stared large caliber bullets. “Detective Harman, Detroit P.D.” The Detroit guy nodded but said nothing. “Now answer the question, Callahan.”

  “What question? You didn’t ask one.”

  “All right, wise guy. Have you two been asking around for Beverly Cresto?”

  “I have, Detective. Phil’s just along for the chow and the vino.”

  I smiled and pointed my wine glass at each of the newcomers as if to toast them.

  “Why do you ask?” Rusty said.

  “It’s a confidential police matter.”

  “Oh, I understand,” Rusty said. He poured another glass and topped off mine. We both downed something close to a gulp. The cops watched. Patterson was waiting for Rusty to explain his search for the woman we now knew was Beverly Cresto. Let ’em wait.

  The jowly-cheeked Detroiter broke the silence. “Why you looking for her?” He had a nasal Great Lakes twang.

  Rusty took another drink. “It’s a private investigational matter,” Rusty said.

  Patterson’s ghostly-pale complexion reddened. “Why you smug little punk, I’ll—” Harman held up his hand and Patterson stilled. But his head looked as if it would swell up and pop like a pimple.

  “Miss Cresto has provided information concerning a police matter that is multi-jurisdictional,” Harman said, his voice calm. “Both of our departments are concerned for her safety.” He smiled in a mock-friendly way. “Thus our concern about anyone searching for her. Now, once again, why do you seek Miss Cresto?”

  Rusty and I exchanged looks. He raised his eyebrows, and I spoke. “She may also have information regarding a matter we are pursuing for a client.” Across from me, Rusty brightened.

  “And what matter is that?” Harman said, still conversational.

  I could play this game all night if they wished. “I’m sorry. My client insisted on confidentiality.”

  Patterson’s patience ended. “It’s the Holloway kid,” he said, his voice raised to a level that caused some nearby patrons turned their heads our way. “Everybody knows it.”

  “Sorry, who? What kid?” I said. Rusty offered his own boyish, not-a-clue expression.

  Patterson grabbed the edge of our table with both hands as if he was about flip it. “Don’t give me that shit. We know you’re looking for the Holloway kid.” More patrons turned.

  Harman’s teeth clenched, his jowls hardened. “Kerry, keep your voice down.” The Detroit cop held his hands out, palms open, offering one my direction and one Rusty’s, like a Pope blessing the masses. “Look, for whatever reason you seek Miss Cresto we would appreciate it if you would suspend your pursuit. Do it as a favor to law enforcement. She has no information that would help you.”

  “And how would you know that?” Rusty said. “You have no idea what questions we want to ask.”

  Patterson fumed. Harman sighed. “Detective Patterson, let’s give these gentlemen their meeting with Miss Cresto. Please go into the kitchen and tell her we’re coming.” Harman turned to us as Patterson exited. “I insist that we be present during the interview. If you cannot agree to that, then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  I looked at Russ and he nodded his assent. “Agreed,” I said.

  The Detroit cop leaned back in his chair and relaxed. “So, you say the wine is pretty good?”

  Patterson returned. “She’s ready,” he said.

  Harman seemed to ponder that. “Detective, why don’t you take her out the back door, away from prying ears, and wait for us?” Patterson nodded and returned to the kitchen.

  The cooks and kitchen staff paid us no mind as we entered. Detective Harman led us around the ovens and equipment, past two men washing a mountain of dishes, and through the back door.

  Clusters of trash barrels lined both sides of the alley. Two establishments had lights hanging above their doors, but that was the only illumination other than the lights of 47th nearly a block away. As we stepped outside, Patterson, who stood nearby, closed the door behind us. There were two uniformed Kansas City police officers leaning against the alley’s brick wall across from us. No girl. Anywhere.

  Harman and Patterson now held revolvers and the two uniformed officers approached. One had produced a department issue nightstick and the other a non-issue blackjack. Patterson grinned like the Cheshire cat.

  “Put your hands up behind your heads, boys,” Harman said. “Very carefully.” We obliged.

  “Get their weapons,” Patterson said to the officers. They did. Patterson pointed with his pistol at the nearest garbage can. The officers moved to the can and tossed in our guns.

  “Now.” Patterson waved his revolver like a baton and looked toward Harma
n as he spoke. “You boys forget about the Cresto dame, okay? This time we’re only going to give you a friendly little beating. Next time—and there better not be a next time—you won’t fare so well.”

  Rusty and I looked at each other. His eyes blinked once.

  Patterson waved his gun at the officers standing by, each with his own selected friendly-beating tool. As he did so, Rusty made Patterson into a football tackling dummy. I ducked low, and before Harman could squeeze his trigger, stepped towards him and brought my right fist up in a long arc, smashing it into the side of his face. He tumbled back into the trash cans and went down. Too late, I swiveled, readying for the assault. I had a split second to identify the uniform and the blackjack before the latter made acquaintance with my skull.

  On the ground in a daze, I saw Rusty on top of Patterson whaling away with both fists. A uniform who stood above Rusty crashed his nightstick down once, and once more. For one dizzying moment, the view was blotted out by Harman’s leather wingtip as it drew back, aimed, and very skillfully and with much force swung forward.

  Rusty came around before I did. When my brain cleared enough to insist that my eyes open, I found him fishing in the overturned barrels. He produced our guns and laid my .38, coated in coffee grounds, next to me. I crawled to a sitting position, my head pissed-off at my body’s activity. I gingerly assessed my head, finding lumps behind my right ear and on my forehead at the hairline. I wouldn’t be wearing my hat for a while. It also appeared that Harman’s wingtip had spent some time on my rib cage and solar plexus after I passed out. Rusty stood unsteadily above me.

  “You look like shit,” I said, and he did. One side of his head was plastered with dried blood from a gash above his eyebrow. That eye, the left one, squinted through the surrounding swollen tissue. Alley grime striped one side of his clothes, and he stank. Or was that me? “You’re gonna need about four stitches, I’d say.”

  “Yeah, but you shoulda seen Patterson,” Rusty said. “He’ll be brushing his teeth one at a time from now on.”

  His chuckle turned to grimace, and he grabbed his head as if to steady it. “If you had a mirror, you’d see your beauty contest days are over, too, Philip. Of course, only your momma loved that mug before.” Rusty knew all about my folks. He was okay to say those things. And he was right. My mother always did think I was a lot better looking than did the Emporia girls.

  Rusty helped me stand. I brushed the grounds off my .38, popped open the cylinder and blew a mouthful of air through the barrel. The blowing made my head pound even more.

  “What was that all about?” Rusty said.

  I started to shrug but my ribs objected. “Beats the hell out of me. Why would cops from two different cities want to keep us from talking to this girl? What’s this Holloway kid gotten himself into?”

  “Gee whiz, I think now we can rule out the easy answer, that he took off on a lark with the girl,” Rusty said.

  “Yep. And let’s not forget what the old man said about the esteem in which the cops hold Tommy.”

  “Think they may have done something with the kid, and our Beverly knows about it?”

  We walked slowly and gingerly toward the lights on 47th. “Maybe. But why the Detroit PD?”

  “Beats me,” Rusty said. “One good thing, though.”

  I carefully swiveled my head his way. “What’s good, Russ? We’re still alive?”

  “Well, that too.” His smile crinkled the smooth, sleek look of the dried blood. “I was gonna say that we skipped out without paying for our meal.”

  It was a little before 10 p.m., and we decided to beat the late night drunk’s rush and head to the hospital to get Rusty’s forehead sewed up. We just turned north on Broadway when it seemed as if every siren in the city started blaring. Two minutes later two fire engines honked us over and rumbled by, also headed north. At the crest of the hill overlooking Union Station, we saw an enormous fire raging in the Southwest bottoms. All the sirens converged on the blaze.

  “Damn!” said Rusty with his usual alacrity.

  “Yeah,” I responded.

  At the hospital, there were several of the usual weekend-damaged folks ahead of us in the ER waiting room. As we waited, an ambulance with police escort showed. The drivers wheeled in a burn victim. All of them—the victim, the wheelers and the cops—reeked of smoke. Once the victim was safely in the care of hospital staff, a nurse brought the cop escorts glasses of water, which they guzzled like they’d just crossed the Sahara. I motioned for Rusty to keep his seat, and I walked over to them.

  “Evening, officers.”

  They both looked at me like I was a roach that needed stomping. They offered no response. Undeterred, I pushed on. “Been down at the big fire?” As soon as the words left my lips, I realized how stupid they sounded.

  One of the officers answered my question with one of his own. “What happened to you, hotshot?”

  “Who, me? I fell down the stairs.”

  Now that we were best pals, I tried again. “What’s burning down there?”

  The cop pulled out a cigarette, and I flicked a match for him. “Thanks, bud,” he said, and inhaled deeply and expelled a rapid stream. “Liquor warehouse. Explosion and fire. Now some of the surrounding buildings are involved.” He blew another lung-full of smoke at the ceiling. “Looks like the whole block may go along for the ride.”

  “Shame.”

  “Yeah. All that booze.” His partner snorted and raised his empty water glass.

  “Any fatalities?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. It’s chaos down there now. We’re hoping to get some kind of statement from this guy as soon as the sawbones let us speak to him.”

  “Arson?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  A doctor and a nurse were talking to Rusty. He stood and followed them down the west hallway. “That’s my pal,” I said. “I gotta go hold his hand while they sew him up.”

  The quiet one spoke, “He fall down the stairs too?”

  “Two flights. So long, officers.” I hurried to catch up.

  Stitches in place, we drove to Rusty’s while talking about the case and about the fire. Rusty worried that the fire would drive up the price of booze. I thought he might be kidding, but he can stone-faced tease a fella, so I wasn’t completely sure. After dropping him off, I replayed the day, trying to sort and weigh the information. My mind wandered a lot of places. And those places led me to my next destination, lunch with Colleen Holloway tomorrow. Did she know this Cresto dame? If so, what would she tell me? And if the cops were involved with Cresto, and Tommy was involved with Cresto, then something smelled fishy. The old man had said he couldn’t trust the police department when it came to the son. I would need to tread carefully among Kansas City’s finest.

  Friday, October 12, 1934

  (Day Four)

  I made strong coffee, fried some eggs and a rasher of bacon. I looked up that word, rasher, in my mother’s dictionary when I was a boy. The British lady who ran the Flint Hills Café in Emporia always used it. When I asked my mother what it meant, she told me to look it up. She almost always told me that when I asked about a word. She liked to see me poking around in books. It made her happy and I was glad to oblige. Rasher (rash’ur) n. a serving of bacon, usually three or four slices. It became a part of my vocabulary, and ever since I’ve flaunted rasher at every opportunity, even though folks look at me funny. And that morning I made my rasher four slices. A guy’s gotta keep his strength up.

  After showering, I surveyed the damage in the mirror: wing-tip sized bruises on my chest, side, precariously close to my groin, and two lumps on my head. I’d have to be careful when I parted my hair. The headache was almost gone but the head still tender. By the time I had maneuvered down the stairs and out to my car, I had discovered that my body only hurt when I moved, or breathed. Lucky me.

  The Plymouth started right up. A guy could get used to that. I headed over to the newspaper office to see what Dominic and his boys had dug
up for me.

  Even from the far end of the Star’s large city desk room, her red hair shone like a beacon, beckoning me to approach. I arrived at her desk and started to tip my hat when I remembered why I hadn’t worn one. Instead, I offered her a slight bow. “Good morning, Virginia.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Morris.”

  She nearly sang the words, and she remembered my name.

  “Mr. Goucher in?”

  With sparkling eyes, she said, “Sure thing, Mr. Morris. Dominic’s in the morgue downstairs.”

  “Call me Phil.”

  She blushed as bright as her freckles.

  The blush added a frown. “What happened to your head, Phil?”

  “Oh that. Nothing really: a shelf full of books collapsed on me.”

  “Oh, dear, are you all right?

  I offered her a sheepish smile. “Sure, just a little lumpy is all. Best get downstairs to speak to Mr. Goucher.” I raised my hand to touch the hat brim that wasn’t there and completed the motion with a full-blown chivalrous bow—another blush.

  I would have danced down the stairs for her had my body permitted it.

  Dominic sat hunched over a pile of newspapers, an unlit cigar flitting back and forth in his mouth. He held an old newspaper in each hand and peered at a third on table. Dom didn’t see me approach. “Morning, you old spaghetti slinger.” I slid the armless oak library chair around, straddled it and leaned forward on the chair-back.

  “Morning to you, you sod-busting, hick reprobate,” Dom said without looking up.

  I grinned, which prompted a wince. I made a mental note: smiling hurt too. I decided to forgo any wise guy responses. You don’t trade barbs with the barber. He’ll shave you bald.

  “Still working the Kansas, Missouri story?”

  He kept his eyes on the yellowed paper before him. “Yep, goes out in the Sunday Star.” Dom held up a shut-up-while-I-read hand. I did, and while I waited, took in the scattered newspapers, reading their upside down headlines. My mother would have loved this place. And she would have been square with me being a newspaper man like Dominic, instead of a lowly gumshoe.