Twin Cities Noir (27 page)
“Mummy,” Tommy said, “stay close, I might need you.”
Mummy nodded and winked.
Tommy’s office was paneled in dark mahogany; the wood was dense and made the room practically soundproof, which suited my purposes just fine.
Tommy walked to a small bar in the corner and took down two glasses. He lifted a bottle. “Single malt, twenty years old.”
“Why not?” I said, and he poured.
He handed me the glass and said, “To old times.”
“Some need to be forgotten,” I said, and sat down in a big leather armchair.
“But not all of them?” Tommy asked.
“Not all of them.”
“Well, if it’s going to be business, maybe I should call Mummy in.”
“You know something? You can still be a dumb schmuck when it comes to women.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Tommy said, putting his drink down.
“Claire. She came to see me today, told me you were holding her back, wouldn’t let her go to New York for a radio contract.”
“What?”
“Later I went to the Commodore. She told me you threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave. After that we screwed like minks.”
Tommy looked angry. Double-crossed by a dame.
“Why don’t you call Claire in here,” I suggested, taking out the Luger and setting it in my lap. “Mummy too.”
“That’s how it’s going to play, huh?” Tommy asked.
I nodded and he opened the door and beckoned them in.
They entered and sat down side by side on a small sofa facing me.
Tommy glared at Claire. “So you want to go to New York, huh?”
“What are you talking about, Tommy?” Her voice was so sweet; you’d swear bees were nesting in her mouth.
“Jake told me that you said I’d kill you if you ever left me. That’s how you see our relationship?”
“No, Tommy.” She began to cry. “Kane came to my apartment, forced his way in, and raped me. He told me it was to get even with you.”
I started laughing. “You tell a great story, baby. But I like the one you told this afternoon better.”
“What story?” Tommy asked.
“That the only way out of the relationship was for you to be dead. And since she figured I was going to kill you anyhow, I’d do her a favor.”
“That’s a lie, Tommy,” Claire said.
“Oh, there’s more. She was afraid I might have lost my edge in stir, so she told me she had arranged backup for me, and guess who that is?” I said, pointing to Mummy.
Mummy started to his feet.
“Sit down, Mummy, I’m not through.” I showed him my Luger. “Here’s how I figure it,” I said to Tommy. “Claire wants to be more than just a chanteuse. She wants power. By seducing you she could get it. But you kept it strictly business. So Mummy was her fallback. He was for it. Why not? He’d get a swell dame and your operation. But he didn’t want to go up against you alone. When he heard I was getting out, he assumed I would kill you and then he and Beautiful would take care of me.”
“That’s a great story, Jake,” Mummy said. “But it’s bullshit. I’d have no reason to kill you.”
“Really? Remember that Prohibition cop I killed? He was supposed to be on the take, but someone got to him and paid him more than Tommy and I did. When I was in the pen, I found out who the double-crosser was. It was you, Mummy. You let your mouth run free with one of Capone’s hitters. You remember Santino? When he was sent to Leavenworth, I saved him from a shiv. He told me what you had done. You wanted that booze, you greedy bastard, it was worth a hundred grand. I also know it was you that tipped the law that I was coming back from Cuba. You hoped they’d kill me.”
“How do you know Santino wasn’t lying?” Mummy asked belligerently. “How do you know it wasn’t Macintyre that set you up?”
“Because when we were jumped, it was Tommy that took the bullet meant for me and saved my life. He got patched up by an abortion doc in Minneapolis. Then we both lit out for Cuba, so Tommy could recover. I came back to find the rat that double-crossed us.”
Mummy went for his .38. I raised the Luger and put a 9mm Parabellum slug right through his heart. His pistol fell from his hand.
Claire screamed, “You son of a bitch!” She dug a little automatic out of her purse and aimed it in my direction. Tommy grabbed up Mummy’s .38 and shot her in the head. Her gun went off as she fell and the bullet put a hole in Mummy’s shoulder.
In December, I was behind the wheel of the Duesenberg, driving Tommy to see a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. We shot the breeze about the events.
“Didn’t go as planned,” Tommy said.
“It went better,” I said. Originally, Tommy brought Mummy back from Chicago by offering him a partnership in the casino. We were just waiting for me to be sprung, so I could be in on the kill. We made everyone think I was gunning for Tommy, to throw the rat off base. Mummy should have known, if you harm us, you pay.
“Claire was the joker in the deck,” Tommy said. “But it worked to our advantage.”
We told Frank O’Hara that Mummy had wanted to take over Tommy’s operation and tried to kill him. Claire attempted to stop him. But Mummy shot her with his .38. As Claire fell, she shot him in the shoulder. Before he could get off another shot, I killed him.
Frank went through the motions, but he bought our story because he wanted to.
“You know Claire had talent and would have gone far,” Tommy said. “But I wonder, was she a good lay?”
“Not as good as that Follies dancer in Paris,” I said.
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Now she was a good lay! After this operation I’m going to have to make up for lost time.”
You see, I knew Claire was lying when she said Tommy had made her his mistress. When Tommy took that bullet for me, it clipped a nerve and rendered him impotent.
A
quick chili dog for lunch and I gotta get moving. There’s never enough time in this racket. I start driving across town at 8 a.m. collecting the receipts, drive all the way out west to Lake Minnetonka to get them looked at, pick up a bundle of cash there, and drive back to the east side of St. Paul, stopping along the way at each establishment to distribute the money. I tell you, it’s a meat grinder. But this is the best part of my day—a quick stop at the Gopher Bar and Café on 7th Street in downtown St. Paul for a beer and a Coney Island—a chili dog piled so high with toppings that you have to eat it with a knife and a fork. This is what accounts for a lunch break—twenty minutes with an axe hanging over my head. Then back on the road again, driving clear out to Hudson to pick up yesterday’s receipts and drop off yesterday’s cash. Hudson is always a day behind because they’re way out there. Benno could front them the money, but he doesn’t trust anyone—not even me. I hate to think what would happen if he knew I stopped here every day, leaving his payroll in the car, even for only a few minutes.
But what the hell am I supposed to do, eat lunch in the car? I ain’t no pig! I hate eating in the car, spilling food all over my custom upholstery. And trying to keep a big Continental on the road and eating a chili dog at the same time is more frustration than I can stand. Hell, if I wanted to work under those conditions I would have taken a job at my uncle’s foam factory over in Northeast and spent my life working on the dock, breathing truck exhaust and wrenching my back every other day. I chose a life on the streets because it had more pizzazz, more excitement, and, for Christ’s sake, more money. Now I end up working for Crazy Benno, still humping an impossible schedule and making minimum organized crime wage. It ain’t fair. So, yeah, I guess my little chili dog break is a “fuck you” to the new gangster order.
I rush out the front door of chili dog heaven, digging a piece of sweet onion out of my teeth, and head toward the parking lot. I hate to leave the car sitting very long. You can’t be too careful when you’re carrying $70,000 in cash. Granted, it’s in a strong box in the trunk and only me and Benno know the combination, but I still get nervous every time I stop— kind of like driving without car insurance: You know nothing is going to happen, but you’re worried anyway.
As I round the corner of the building, headed for my car, someone slams into my shoulder, knocking me down as I say, “What the…?”
Next thing I know, the guy is on top of me. “Where are they?” he says.
I quick reach for my gun but it ain’t there, and I feel a sharp, sweet whack at the back of my head. I look up and there’s this grubby tattooed guy with my gun in his hand.
“He said, where are they?” growls Tattoo, and whacks me again. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, then I realize Dude #1 is digging in my pocket.
“Hey!” I say, as if it’s gonna stop him. I take a swing at him but he’s already on his feet, my keys sparkling in his hand. “Motherfucker,” I yell, “get back here!” But he keeps on going, running toward my Lincoln, Tattoo following.
I immediately stand up, and my head spins. Fucker hit me harder than I thought. I stumble and grab the wall as the bums start my Lincoln and peel out of the space, spitting gravel everywhere. Goddamnit, I just had that thing painted and they’re gonna scratch it all up. As they spin past me and I watch helplessly, I see Tattoo smile slyly behind the passenger window and wave my gun, taunting me. “SHIT!” I yell. What am I gonna do?
When from around the corner, I hear, “Davy? Are you all right?” I look over to see Curtis, one of the regulars at the Gopher. He’s a small-time hood and a real likeable guy. He’s always nice to visit with on my little lunch breaks. I guess I overlooked him in there today, but I’m happy to see him now.
“Curtis,” I say, “thank God! You gotta help me! These two assholes just did a job on me and took my car.”
“Let’s go,” Curtis says, and from behind him appears a heavyset guy I haven’t seen before. He doesn’t say anything but he moves with us in the direction of Curtis’s car, so I figure he’s with him.
I jump in the front seat, Heavy in the back, as Curtis starts the ignition. “I saw them go toward Jackson Street,” he says. “They’re probably heading up to the interstate. We can catch ’em.” He leaves the gravel driveway and squeals the tires onto 7th.
“Oh man, am I glad you came along when you did, Curtis. I’m dead meat if I don’t get that car back.”
“How much is in there today?” Curtis asks, jerking the wheel to pull around a slow-moving milk truck.
“Over seventy thousand,” I answer. “I gotta get that money or Benno will kill me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Benno,” Curtis says. “We’ll take care of this.”
We reach the interchange at 35E and Curtis automatically takes the northbound onramp.
“Are you sure they headed north?” I ask. “Maybe they kept going east up to 94.”
“No,” Curtis shakes his head, “they went this way. I saw them take this right.”
Thank God he can see what’s going on. My head is still ringing from the thumping Tattoo gave me. We scream up 35E and nearly reach the 694 interchange when we spot my Continental cruising north, just like Curtis said.
“There,” I say. “Hang back a little. Let’s follow them to where they’re going. I’m gonna fuck these guys up when we get there.” I reach for my gun and remember I don’t have it anymore. “Shit, they got my gun.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Curtis says reassuringly, “I got one with your name on it.” Heavy doesn’t say anything from the backseat, so I assume he’s just enjoying the ride, but I hope he’s ready to rumble when we get where we’re going, because I’m not just gonna get that money back, I’m gonna take a surcharge out of their hides.
We follow these clowns—who don’t seem to be in any big hurry—clear up past Forest Lake, where they finally pull off the interstate and head east to Lindström. Once through that dinky town, they go north on a narrow highway.
“They gotta know by now that we’re following them,” I say to Curtis, who is driving casually along now, unconcerned about tipping them off.
“Yeah,” he says, “but they’re not worried.”
“You think they’re planning to shoot it out?” I ask.
“Don’t know,” Curtis replies, as he turns off the narrow highway onto an even narrower gravel road, “hard to say what people will do to get their hands on that much money.”
That much money.
I suddenly realize how odd it was that he asked me in the parking lot how much was in the car today—in all the months I’ve been stopping at the Gopher, I never mentioned what my day job is—and how I didn’t see him inside the bar but he appeared as soon as those jerks took my car. Now here I sit in the passenger seat, with this guy driving who I really don’t know that well, and Heavy in the seat behind me who I’ve never seen before, and I start to wonder. And my wonder turns to worry. I look at Curtis as he pulls the car off the gravel road into a tree-obscured lane with two wheel ruts, and I say, “No, no way.”
Suddenly, from behind, Heavy clasps my shoulder with his meaty hand and presses the cold barrel of his pistol against the base of my skull. I get the message—don’t move—and I don’t. I just sit there and say the Lord’s Prayer in my mind.
We come to a stop in a leaf-canopied clearing where a broken-down old cabin stands, roof covered with moss, and there next to my beautiful baby-blue Lincoln Continental stand Dude #1 and Tattoo. Son of a bitch, am I a schmuck! Tattoo steps up to the passenger side and opens the door, covering me with my own gun, and I hear the key alarm bong as Curtis and Heavy get out of the car. I stand up and shake my head.
“You ain’t gonna get away with this,” I say, as Heavy pushes me toward the back side of the cabin.
Curtis sneers at me. “You’re such a blowhard, Davy. I’ve been sitting in that bar listening to your bullshit for so long I can’t wait to hit the off button. But you’re gonna talk right up to the end, aren’t you?”
“You can make this personal if you want, Curtis. But I ain’t gonna tell you the combination to the box. It’ll take you a year to get it open, and when Benno finds out he’s gonna skin you motherfuckers alive.”
“I already have the combination,” he says with a velvety satisfaction in his voice. “And what makes you think Benno doesn’t already know what we’re up to?”