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A Small Death
Our "Mystery Contest" Winner
by
D J Barber
Rain was dead. She lay sprawled across the tiny kitchen floor as blood pooled beneath her. Several stab wounds peppered her torso; her face was twisted in fear and agony in a death mask of horror. Sirens wailed in the misty rain on this dark, cold night. A chill ran through me as I left the kitchen and walked over by the radio in the small parlor. It crackled with Toots Malloy; his latest jazzy sax tune melodic and sweet.
Murphy and Callahan burst through the door and walked right past me and into the terrible scene by the icebox. Both were in long, dark coats, mismatched hats, black shoes, and wore scowls on their ugly faces. Callahan glared at me, “You call it in?”
“Yeah,” I responded, not caring about what the city dicks thought.
“This something connected with the Agency?” asked Murphy.
East Coast Detective Agency, my employer, had no stake here, so I shook my face at the Detectives. I was here for a personal reason. A couple of mooks from the meat wagon pushed past me, followed by the Coroner. Murphy walked over and considered the telephone, the earpiece dangled from the phone on the wall. Callahan walked over to Murphy's side, getting out of the way of the doctor in the now crowded kitchen, picked up the earpiece, and slapped it on the cradle.
“You wanna maybe give us a statement?” Murphy stated more than asked.
“Sure.” I replied--as if there were a choice.
“Well, c’mon then, let’s go.”
I followed the detectives from the boarding room, down the stairs, and outside. The rain had picked-up and we dashed to their car. Murphy got in the back seat beside of me while Callahan drove. It was a cold, dark drive over to the Precinct and I pulled out my package of Fatima’s, offered one to Murphy, and lit both from my small box of 'Strikes Anywhere' matches. Callahan pulled a blunt from the inside pocket of his coat, sat it between his teeth unlit, and absently chewed on the end. At least the drive was short.
The Radio Car pulled up at the front door of the Precinct and we jumped out, dodging raindrops, in our dash up the stairs and between the green globes. We strolled past the desk sergeant, up the metal stairway, and went left into the squad room. There were several desks. Murphy showed me to one covered with papers, a goose-neck lamp, an Underwood typewriter, a dusty telephone with a worn earpiece, a copy of the Times folded in a knot, and a stained and greasy mug half-filled with cold coffee. I was shown a chair opposite Murphy’s and sat. Callahan pulled another chair beside me and settled in close.
“So…” Murphy led.
I began, “ I got a call, some broad, gives me an address in the nineties, so I go there, you know?” Callahan hums a positive sound. “There’s a bagman, works for the Dagoes up in Louderton. Name of Lewis Maclovich--real hard case. Runs heroin and cocaine up across 110th. Anyway this bagman was shaving a little off the top, for retirement no doubt—“
“No doubt,” repeats Murphy.
“Yeah…well, the boys up to Louderton figure they’re short and also figure why. So—“
“Is this story going somewhere, or are you just driving it around?”
“Look, Murphy, I’m trying to help. I came of my own accord and can leave that way too.” I bluffed.
Callahan, still sat close, looked hard at me and said, “You know, Murph, I can’t help but to believe he’s givin’ us the dodge. Maybe if we took ‘em downstairs, he’d be more—cooperative.”
I was in no mood to go to the basement with a couple of bulls; besides Callahan’s breath was like rotten garlic, so I began again, “Look fellas, ease up! I’m getting to the point, all right?”
“So…” Murphy prompted again.
“So, I got this steady squeeze. She’s the sister of the dead lady. Like I said, I got a call to go to the sister’s place. She was dead when I got there, filleted on the kitchen floor, so I called you guys first thing. And here we are.”
“This squeeze of yours got a name?” Murphy asked.
“Sally Ruth.”
“Any relation to The Babe?” Callahan asked and both detectives roared with laughter.
They subsided in a moment and I continued: “Actually her last name is Daniels—Sally Ruth Daniels.”
“And the stiff?”
“Rhonda. Rhonda Daniels Giovanni.”
Murphy’s eyebrows rose, creasing his flat forehead. “Giovanni as in: The Badlands Giovanni’s --Giovanni?” he asked.
“I only know Sally Ruth, not her sister.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud!” Murphy growled, “You know!”
Callahan leaned in close: “I still say we take ‘em downstairs, Murph.” The rotten garlic wasn't getting any sweeter.
The phone on the desk rang and Murphy grabbed it up, “Hello! What? Okay…it’s you, Doc… Yeah? Forty-Two wounds?... You don’t say. All right, and thanks Doc.” He slammed the earpiece back on the cradle, and then sat the phone carefully down amongst the disarray on his desk. “We got work to do, Callahan,” he said and then turned his attention to me. “And you! Get the Hell outta here. But don’t even think of leaving town without first consulting wit me.”
We rose as one and the detectives pushed past me, rumbled towards the exit, leaving me behind and forgotten. I strode slowly out, was back on the street a few minutes later and lamenting the four-block walk in the rain back to my machine. When I arrived outside of Rain’s apartment building the meat wagon was gone and there was a black and white stationed just down the block. One copper was inside, I could see the end of his cigarette flare as he drew on it. I also noted his partner; on the vestibule of Rain's boarding house trying to appear casual, but looking just like a copper on a stake out. Both coppers took notice of me, but I just strolled over to my old Model A, hopped in, convinced the old girl to turn over, and pulled away with a jerk. I stopped at Zip’s Liquor Store, picked up a bottle for my personal supply, and was home before eleven. I put my hat on top of the rack and hung my coat there too, while both dripped a puddle on the oilcloth flooring.
Sally Ruth picked up on the first ring and I gave her the bad news. She took it well--like I knew she would. She wanted me to come over, but I begged off and promised to see her the following day. I hung up and pulled my purchase out of my jacket pocket and set in on the small side table next to the fifth of gin. I strolled over to the bed, stripped, crawled in, and fell asleep in record time.
It had been a long day.
*
Morning came with the sun shining through the dirty window over my sink. I got up, showered, shaved, and thought about coffee down at Oscar’s Deli on Pike Street. I drove over to Sally Ruth’s instead. She answered the door, puffy faced and sniffing, but invited me in with the shadow of a smile. Sally Ruth took the pot off the gas ring and poured two rounds of joe and brought them into her closet-sized parlor. She set the coffee cups on the tiny table and sat down beside me on the love seat that passed for a sofa.
“So…can you tell me what happened?” Her voice was throaty, like she’d been up and crying all night.
“Somebody was real angry, or maybe it was just some psycho, I dunno, but I’m glad you called—I mean you wouldn’t have wanted to see—“
“I can’t believe this!” she stuttered through sobs, “I just can’t believe anyone would want to hurt Rain…she was so…” A stream of tears rolled down Sally Ruth’s face and I took her into my arms, trying to be of comfort, but she was stiff and didn’t meld into me.
I released her, took a sip of coffee, and told her I had to leave. She looked hurt, but nodded and gave me a short kiss before I departed. Outside the clouds continued to thin. Maybe it would be a better day. I jumped into the Model A and rumbled off towards The Badlands. Old man Giovanni lived on Sycamore Lane in a huge corner-lot Brownstone. I don’t know what kind of relationship he had with his daughter-in-law, but I guessed it was on me to deliver the news. Rain’s husband, Sonny, was the old man’s second oldest and a bane to society by all accounts. When I got to Sycamore the birds were singing and the sun was shining. It seemed like a beautiful day. Sonny answered the door. He had a scratch across his face and his clothes were rumpled up, like he had slept in them. Sonny had the bleary eyes of a man who had been on a jag the previous night and his breath still smelled of liquor. Rain and Sonny had a special agreement. She had kept her place after the big wedding at Saint Michael's. And Sonny had kept a few girls on the side. I guess they kept to Ben Franklin's old adage about keeping your eyes half-closed after the ceremony.
“What you want?” he said. “Damn dick comin’ to my door on Sat ‘day mornin’.
“I came to see your father, Sonny. But I’m glad you’re here.” I said.
I saw the old man looming up behind. “What the hell is this, Sonny!” said the elder Giovanni, “This is no way to treat company.”
Sonny subsided, but held his glare as the old man stepped to the door. “What is it you want, young man?”
“It’s about Rain—“
Sonny jumped to the fore. “Rain? What do you got to do wit Rain?”
The younger Giovanni glared angrily and the old man looked worried. I decided to just spill it-- “She’s dead.” I stated, “Someone came into her place last night and took a knife to her.”
The old man’s eyes bulged and Sonny screamed, “What?”
I was taken firmly by the arm and led into the Brownstone. The old man took me to an ornate parlor just inside the front door and sat me down in a large, plush wingback chair. He sat in its twin across from me. You wouldn’t know there was a Depression outside, what with all the expensive bangles; there was even gold inlay around the fireplace mantle. The old man’s eyes took on a hard ebony sheen. “I’m gonna tell you something--Not that I have to, but it’s for your own information. You seem like an honest man. One of those East Coast Dicks, I hear. Not a bad bunch, you fellas.” He cleared his throat. A man in a dark suit with tails suddenly appeared by his side. “Porter. I’ll have tea. Bring our guest—mm, I should say coffee-- strong and black, eh? (I grinned at his perception) And get a ginger ale for Sonny.” He paused while the servant waltzed away. “Lemme see…oh, yes, I was tellin' you about Rain. Sonny!” he barked, “You come over here. You should hear this too.” He turned his attention back to me, “Mr. Er—“
“Johnson.” I said. It was as good a name as any.
“Yes—ahh, Mr. Johnson.” His eyes twinkled with suspicion. “This Rain, Rhonda I should say, but I digress,” Old man Giovanni rearranged his face. “Rain was a problem. She had dubious habits, uh, how do you say…?”
“Drugs?” I offered.
“To be blunt, yes. She was going uptown wit the Negroes, shootin dope, sniffing cocaine, bringing shame to the name of Giovanni.”
“Papa,” interrupted Sonny.
“I told you this was something you should hear, so shuddup!”
“Yes Papa.” Sonny murmured and again subsided.
“This woman, this Rain, she was trouble. Always up there doing God knows what, eh? Well, no more!”
The old man stopped as Porter re-entered the parlor with our drinks. We all took a sip as the servant left. “My Sonny knew nothing of this. It was business, that’s all. A matter of respect!” Giovanni was adamant. I took another sip. I had no client and this wasn’t company business. Old man Giovanni’s eyes took on that ebony glare once more and he stood. “So,” he said, “If that answers your questions I guess you can go.”
I rose and went to the front door with Sonny on my heels. I stepped down the seven steps and pulled on my hat as the door slammed shut behind me. I got in the Model A and puttered toward Louderton. There was a bagman named Lewis Maclovich that I needed to see.*
414 Carver Street was in a neighborhood where the neighbors didn’t know one another and didn’t want to. Rows of duplex apartment houses with alleyways between each still showed that it was once a nice working-class block, but now the Depression had stolen most of the good that remained. I pushed through the loose-hinged door and walked three flights up. An acrid stink, like the men’s room at Flick’s Bar & Grill, dwelled in the stairwell. Apartment 304 sat left of the stairway and I tapped on the door. I heard some rustling around inside and then a man’s voice.
“Wait a minute, okay?”
I heard some more rustling around and then a squeaky sound. I gave the door a good kick and entered. Outside a straggly-looking character wearing dark trousers, a blue unbuttoned shirt, and black socks, was holding his shoes in one hand and trying to close the window with the other. Upon seeing me he slunk down the fire escape and out of view. I ran over to the window and threw it open and looked down to see the man sliding down the rails at breakneck speed. Running back to the entry door, I slapped it closed behind me, ran down the smelly stairs, through the front door, and into the street. I peeled around the side of the building and spied my quarry sliding over the back alley fence. I followed, but after clambering over the fence I lost him, so I went down the larger alleyway, around Hicks Street, and back to Carver. A couple of orphans stood close by my jalopy and I shooed them away as I approached. One immediately returned however and asked if I were looking for Kip. I asked who Kip was and the kid said it was the guy that lived in Apartment 304, 414 Carver.
Orphan or not, he was a good kid. With a few whispered words and a promise of ‘a piece of the action’, the kid
disappeared with the deal that he and his gang would spy this ‘Kip’ out and drop a dime if he returned. I slipped the kid a fin before he took off and I thought he was gonna wet himself over the windfall. I crawled back into my machine and headed for the Agency. I figured I should let my boss know what I was doing so he wouldn’t give me anything heavy right now. Sam Witherspoon, East Coast’s Chief, is an okay guy in my book, and I don’t care what the coppers or newsrags say!*
I drew the flimsy curtain shut over my sink and thought about making some coffee. After the runaround in Louderton and the stop at the Agency, I had gone to The Blue Diner over on Deacon Street and had the special for dinner. Witherspoon gave me three days, but there was a pending case I’d have to get on by then. Recalling my earlier purchase, I picked up the bottle I had bought at Zip’s and poured a bit into a glass. I took a short pull of the whiskey and sat back. There was nothing to do but wait and that’s what a lot of this gumshoe game is about. Reaching over I tuned in the radio; the crisp sound of a trumpet rang a bluesy note or two as I sipped my scotch without a thought or a care. A ring from the telephone brought me out of my slumber and I went over by the door and answered. “Is this Johnson?” a squeaky voice asked.“Yeah, kid. It’s me.”
“Listen! Kip is back, but he ain’t staying. He’s throwing all his junk together. Ralphie--he’s one of the gang-- he says that Kip bought tickets over at the bus depot, so you better hurry!”
“Thanks again, kid,” I said as I hung up the telephone. I grabbed my hat and coat, and then hit the door. In the streets it was getting dark, I knew I didn’t have much time, so I drove over to the bus station and waited. A crowd was gathering and a red and gray bus sat in the lot, door ajar. Folks lined up, maybe six-seven of them, as the driver came out of the crapper behind the service desk in the depot. Slapping the blue cap on his head he shot a wink at the nicely stacked blonde who sat at a typewriter behind the bald guy who hawked the tickets. Suddenly I saw him! Old Kip slunk into the line outside, chin on his chest and hat pulled low. Strolling up slowly I called out: “Maclovich! Hold up there. And show me your hands!”
He bolted away, a curse on his lips, but I tackled him up against the rear fender of the bus, both of us falling down in a lump. Maclovich got to his feet first, and pulled out a long blade, but I kicked him square on the knee and he went down hard, grasping the knee. Sirens screamed somewhere in the night as I rose and slapped the cuffs on him. With a sneer he looked at me and said, “You better watch out cause you don’t know who I work for!”
I poked Kippy hard in the nose and led him toward my car, when all at once the coppers, two cars of them, pulled into the bus station lot. Luckily one of the uniforms recognized me, and I decided to hand custody of my charge over to them. After all, there wasn’t any client and my charity work was now complete. The copper who knew me was named Harrigan; he wanted to know what the beef was, so I told him that Murphy and Callahan were looking for this crud in connection with the murder of a girl down in the nineties. They loaded Lewis ‘Kip’ Maclovich up in the back of one of the Radio Cars and left with a bit less noise than when they arrived.
I walked back over to my jalopy, waited as the bus moved jerkily away, and pointed myself towards Sally Ruth’s place. She could believe this was just some random criminal act--that would do her no harm. As for Sonny, well—the old man all but cleared him of any involvement. Kippy would have his day in court and make his case, but he was looking at a long stretch at the state’s expense. Old man Giovanni had orchestrated the whole ugly scheme—the man Kippy 'worked for'--because of his wounded self-image. Word on the street had it Maclovich had been skimming and Giovanni killed two birds with one stone. And I wasn’t going to go rub my nose up against Giovanni's—that would be untenable. His allusions weren’t worth squat since his golfing buddy, our fair Mayor, wasn’t about to turn on a friend-- at least not one as influential as Giovanni.
I’m happy that I found the creep who murdered Sally Ruth’s sister. Although I didn’t know Rain, it’ll mean something to Sally Ruth. And another thing—It’s nice to get one of the bad guys off the streets, even better to beat those mooks, Murphy and Callahan, to the punch. And that’s the only thing that made this stinkin’, clientless deal worth a plug nickel.
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© Barber, 2006