by Norsebard
Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com
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DISCLAIMERS:
This homage to the hard-boiled pulp detective novels of the 1940s is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.
The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.
All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.
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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:
Written: April 18th - May 1st, 2024.
As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D
*Wave* Hi, Phineas! *Flower*
Description: Sally Swackhamer, Private Eye, and her number one gal-pal Vicky Prince return in another pulpish tale from the mean streets of Mooresburg City. This time, one of Sally's old flames is being blackmailed. Bringing the criminals to justice will require cigarettes, booze, fast thinking, quick shooting and, above all, plenty of legwork - the only question is: will Sally get 'em, or will they get 'er first?
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ACT I
The mood in Sally Swackhamer's office on Eighty-seventh Street in the state capital of Mooresburg City couldn't be cozier. At a quarter to nine in the evening on Friday, October 24th, 1947, the sun had long since lost its daily hide-and-seek game with Father Time, but the mid-thirty-something private investigator had compensated for the encroaching darkness by turning on a reading lamp that stood on the corner of her desk.
Behind her, a cast-iron radiator almost glowed cherry-red as she had twisted the handle to produce the most heat it could. The pleasant warmth roasting her back meant she didn't need additional layers of clothing beyond her regular pair of brown, high-waisted pants, a men's undershirt, a khaki shirt and a necktie that she had pulled loose.
A column of pale-gray smoke rose from the Serrano's Special Blend cigarette that dangled from the corner of her mouth - the pile of butts and spent matches in the ashtray proved it wasn't first she'd had that evening. She had to squint to prevent the smoke from getting in her eyes, but it was a bother she could live with if it meant tasting the high-quality tobacco.
She had scooted out to the leading edge of her wooden swivel-chair as she carried out her regular evening routine: cleaning and servicing her two Browning Hi-Power pistols. A pair of tiny brushes, a miniature precision screwdriver and a small tube of lubrication oil had been placed within easy reach.
Where many others, even some of her colleagues in the private-eye business, considered cleaning the shooting irons daily somewhat excessive, she took great pride in maintaining her hardware to the highest degree as they were all that stood between her and early harp lessons.
The closest neighbors to the ashtray and the set of tools were a bottle of Black Knight whisky and a three-fingers-worth tumbler that she sipped from at regular intervals. It wasn't her favorite blended Scotch in the world - and she made it known by pulling faces for every other sip or so - but she'd had little choice in the matter as her number-one favorite, 4-Leaf Clover Irish Whiskey, had been tragically absent from the shelf when she had visited the liquor store to restock.
A radio had been placed atop the row of metal filing cabinets that lined the wall to the right Of her desk. Although she had adjusted the volume to be at a moderate level, the live radio transmission from the evening's Dinner & Dance Event at the Savoy downtown filled the small office. At present, the nightclub's house band performed a soulful instrumental version of the evergreen Shine On Harvest Moon so the dinner guests wouldn't choke on their quails or oysters. Later in the evening, the headlining act Teddy 'Hopalong' Hopkins & His Swingin' Six would accompany The Starling Sisters to make sure that everyone who wished to wear through the soles of their patent-leather dancing shoes could do so.
Sally's office wasn't much to look at, but it was her base and indeed her home. Though the ceiling fan didn't work and the door to the small bathroom couldn't close properly, she was content with the setup. She had a desk to work and eat at, a sofa bed to sleep on and a hallstand that offered plenty of room for her leather shoulder-holsters, her trench coat, her fedora and her gumshoes. She considered anything beyond those amenities like the cherry atop the Sundae - nice, but unnecessary.
The rug covering the worn floorboards was new after a goon from Jimmy 'The Ice-Pick' McGarrigle's waterfront gang had died all over the old one. Not only had the unnamed thug bled a great deal, his brief wrestling match with the Reaper had come to a sticky end when his bladder and bowels had been emptied upon the moment of death.
The incident had left Sally severely miffed as she considered it a criminal waste of a perfectly good rug. Of course, the slug that had plugged him had come from one of her Brownings, so she couldn't blame anyone but herself.
Her hazel eyes suddenly shot upward from the cleaning process they had been focused on. When the sound that had alerted her - the squeaking of a nearby door - was repeated a moment later, she got up to turn off the radio. The silence that spread throughout the office allowed her ears to pick up a set of soft click-clacking footsteps that seemed to approach her frosted-pane door in a hurry.
Bitter experience had taught her to only work on one Browning at a time, so she grabbed the one she had already cleaned and quickly worked the action. The lamp on the desk was soon switched off which made a blanket of darkness fall over everything.
A grunt escaped her a moment later when a silhouette of the mysterious person could be seen through the frosted pane. The outline made her furrow her brow - unless one of Mooresburg City's many gangs had grown progressive overnight, the person outside couldn't be a goon, thug, hoodlum, bruiser, palooka, torpedo or any other kind of hired muscle. The slight build, the wide-brimmed hat and the upright, pointy shoulders of the upper garment all hinted at the late-night visitor being a woman.
Sally wasn't about to fall for the old bait-and-switch routine in case the moll outside was only a means to an end, so she inched away from the desk to give any potential assassins a harder time in pinning her down. The Browning was trained at the door at all times as she slipped over to the wall.
A slender finger tapped on the wooden door's frame. When it garnered no response, the finger moved over to the frosted pane to repeat the tapping. Not long after, a semi-whispered 'Sally? Sally, are you in there?' filtered through the door.
Sally Swackhamer was indeed there, but she kept quiet.
The person outside moved her hand down to test the doorknob. A simple twist proved it was unlocked so the door was soon pushed open. The large hat and the head that wore it were stuck through the crack that had developed. A gloved hand held the door back so it wouldn't knock against anything. "Sally? Are you asleep?" was delivered in a whisper.
Having seen enough, Sally jumped forward, wrapped her free hand around the moll's arm and pulled her fully into the dark room. The door and the mysterious stranger tried to outdo each other in a squeaking contest as Sally thumped the former shut with her foot before she pulled the latter into the center of the office.
The reading lamp on the desk was soon turned on. "All right, pal!" Sally said in a no-nonsense voice. "Reach while I get a good look at… what the hell? Marilyn?!"
The forty-four-year-old Marilyn Parker was too shocked at first to do much but stare wide-eyed at the Browning that continued to be trained at her, but the acute muteness was soon overcome. A croaked "Ohhhhh… I knew I should have called ahead," escaped her as she took off her wide-brimmed hat with trembling hands.
Sally chewed on her lips as she watched Marilyn's familiar fair-brown locks fall out of the bun she had tied it into underneath the hat. The lady had lost none of her attractiveness in the short decade that had passed since they had been An Item - if anything, the years had added regal grace to the gal who had been a knockout dame from the outset.
In addition to the huge hat, Marilyn wore what appeared to be a genuine Clarke & Joyce skirt suit from the fashion house's latest spring collection. She had no clutch or purse with her, so the gloves were soon put into one of the suit jacket's pocket.
The hardware in Sally's hand turned inappropriate so it was quickly put back on the desk next to its identical twin. Being tongue-tied wasn't a typical part of her mental package, but the ailment had certainly struck her now: she had a hard time articulating anything beyond the odd grunt - the need for action eventually usurped her uncharacteristic silence.
Moving out her arms, she pulled her old lover into a tender, mutual embrace that ended in a chaste kiss on the visitor's cheek. "You look like a million bucks, sweetcheeks! Life's treating you well. Compared to you, my mug looks like something a street sweeper found in a rain gutter somewhere."
"Oh, it's not quite that bad yet, Sally," Marilyn said with a slight wink.
A guffaw escaped the private investigator as she gave the lady's elbows a little squeeze. "Gee! Thanks, doll! Let me get you something to sit on…"
It wasn't until she noticed the chairs reserved for the guests had been put over by the filing cabinets that she snapped out of her stupor and set off to get the job done - a comfortable chair had soon been placed in front of the desk. "Okay, here ya go. Say, can I getcha anything? Scotch? Gin? Rum? A cigarette?"
Marilyn sat down and crossed her legs like a proper lady before she answered: "Well, I could certainly use a brandy if you have one."
"A brandy? That's a can-do," Sally said, making a beeline for the filing cabinet labeled 'D'. A bottle of Diplomat 12yo was soon retrieved along with a pair of shot glasses. The exquisite, mahogany-colored beverage looked badly out of place in such crude containers, but the only alternatives to the small glasses were two coffee cups that hadn't been washed - or even rinsed - since their use earlier in the day.
Sally let out a brief "Cheers," before she sampled the high-quality spirits. Marilyn settled for taking a tiny sip at first, but when it was revealed to be to her liking, a far larger swig disappeared between her luscious lips.
"My detective skills tell me you're in some kind of fix," Sally continued, putting the glass on the desk before leaning back on her swivel-chair. "It might even be a bad fix. Such a swell and classy dame as yourself would never seek out the big, bad, smelly city unless it was something major."
Marilyn broke out in a short sequence of nodding before she took another swig of the Diplomat brandy. "I need your help, Sally. Badly. I didn't know who else I could turn to. I'm being blackmailed," she said in a frail voice.
Sally shook her head in annoyance as she reached for the opened pack of Serrano's Special Blend cigarettes - she lit it by striking a match and letting the flame caress its tip. Once the fire was going well, she revealed her expert smoking skills by blowing out the match through one corner of her mouth while the cigarette was stuck in the other. "Dammit! By whom? For how much? And what's the-"
A whispered "Photographs… of… of me and someone…" came out of Marilyn before she downed the rest of the brandy in a single gulp.
"Oh. I see. Well, that is a classic, no two ways about it. Let me get you another shot."
Shaking her head, Marilyn put the glass back on the desk. "No, thank you. I'll pass out if I'm not careful. I slept very poorly last night. They want five thousand dollars in small bills. If I fail to deliver, they'll send the photographs to the newspapers."
Sally took a deep puff of her cigarette, downed the shot of brandy and poured herself a new one at once. "Five grand. All right. Can you bleed that kind of spinach?"
"Yes."
"Mmmm. I need to know a few more details-"
"You will help me, won't you? Please, Sally… I have no one else…" Marilyn said, reaching up to dab the corners of her eyes that had already begun to glisten.
Grunting, Sally patted all her pockets for a handkerchief but came up short. A quick gander at the items on the desk proved she had nothing that could stop the flow of tears that was sure to follow. "Why, I feel insulted that you even have to ask, Marilyn," she said as she got up to get a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom.
Handing over the unusual accessory earned her a wide-eyed stare from the classy lady, but the first pieces were soon torn off and put to use drying the crystal tears that had indeed begun to roll down her cheeks.
Sally put away the shot glasses and the bottle of Diplomat before she sat down. The brandy's place on the desk was taken by the bottle of Black Knight whisky and the tumbler she had used when she had been alone. Two fingers' worth of the former had soon been poured into the latter.
"I really do need to know a little more," she said as she leaned back on the swivel-chair. The amber Scotch was given a brief swirl before she took a sip. "Like, you never told me about the dough-boy who leaned on you."
"I'm… pardon?"
"The fella who threatened you."
Marilyn took a deep breath that she let out slowly. "Oh… well, he never said his name. He was a short, ugly man. Very ugly, in fact. When he came to the mansion the other day, he wore brown pants, a threadbare sports jacket and an abominable hat. There was something terrifying about his face… it was completely shapeless like he'd been a prize-fighter or a wrestler-"
"Betcha that's Johan 'Bull-Nose' Pravka. Short, ugly and with a melon full of sawdust. He was born that way," Sally said matter-of-factly. "No way he's the brains behind an extortion scheme. That Joe is just someone's delivery boy. Hmmm. The last I heard, he was an independent bruiser living in one of the ethnic neighborhoods. Maybe one of the Slavic gangs operating there recognized his talents. I can't say."
Marilyn and Sally briefly locked eyes but the contact was soon broken. Sniffling, the elegant lady pulled off another few pieces of the toilet roll. The first was used on her eyes before she blew the trumpet on the other two. "I might as well tell you how I fell into this mess," she said in a quiet voice.
"I was reluctant to ask, but… yeah, I need to know," Sally said, taking a deep puff on the cigarette.
Marilyn wetted her lips several times before she spoke: "My husband and I don't… well, it's been a while since… since we… there's still plenty of love between us, don't get me wrong, just not of the… the… physical kind. He's a kind soul who understands I have needs that he… well, that he can't help me with."
"That sure ain't no surprise given the fact he's almost thirty years older than you!" Sally said under her breath - the cigarette dangled in the corner of her mouth as she spoke.
The predictable response caused Marilyn to squirm and fidget for a brief while. "His only ask was that I took it elsewhere. So I'm renting an apartment on Twenty-sixth Street under my maiden name. It's not a vulgar love shack! You must believe that, Sally. I've poured plenty of love into that place. It's my home away from home."
"I wouldn't dream of judging you," Sally said with conviction. After taking the final puff of the cigarette, she stubbed out the butt in the ashtray. "I presume you still swing both ways?"
"That's who I am."
"I hear ya."
A knowing silence fell over the two women. Several seconds went by before Marilyn nodded and shuffled around on the chair once more. "I've met one or two people on the side like that, but… oh… right now I'm involved with a dashing gentleman I initially met at a charity fundraiser. He was such a dream. He swept me clean off my feet! I resisted at first because I wanted to gauge his intentions… as it turned out, they were genuine."
"I take it the knockout wife of a circuit judge tends to draw a lot of unwanted attention at public events and such?"
"Ah… yes. Mostly from old, portly men who are there with their trophy wives. It's horrible. They're married and they know perfectly well that I am, too… and yet, they treat me as territory to be conquered."
"But the dreamy hunk didn't?"
"No. Not him."
Several seconds went by in silence - Sally used the lull to take a sip of the Black Knight whisky. "Well, he's gotta have a name, right?"
"Obviously."
Nodding, Sally reached for her notepad. When nothing further came from the lady across the desk, she cocked her head and shot her a puzzled glance. "And that is…?"
"I'm not going to tell you. He isn't the problem, Sally. I guarantee it."
Another few seconds went by in silence before Sally drained the last of the tumbler's contents of Scotch and thumped the cork back in the bottle. As she got up to file it under 'W,' she gave the cork an extra whack to make sure it wouldn't fall out - she knew from experience that files had that been soaked in whisky weren't easy to read. "So why did it end in tears? Where were the photos taken? By whom? And what do they show?"
"Sally…"
"I need to know."
Several pieces of the toilet roll were pulled off to dab Marilyn's leaking eyes and blow the trumpet once more. "I don't know who took them. I presumed it was the ugly, little man-"
"Pravka wouldn't know what to do with a camera," Sally said, moving back to Marilyn's side. Crouching down, she took the elegant, slender digits in her grasp and gave them an affirmative squeeze. "No, there's a racket behind it. I'm pretty sure of that. To tell you the truth, the whole thing stinks of a honey-trap."
"I can't believe that, Sally! No. No, I won't even consider it," Marilyn said, smacking a fist onto the chair's armrest. "And they were taken last weekend at a cafe in the pedestrian zone not too far from Chandler Square. Nothing scandalous went on! We just sat there, drinking coffee, sharing an exquisite chocolate cake and enjoying each other's company. We sat close. Very close. Too close for anyone but lovers."
Sally nodded. Though it didn't appear thus, she kept an exact mental record of all that was said regarding the case so she could update her trusty notepad afterwards. "I see," she said as she moved back to the swivel-chair behind the desk. "Tell me, who chose that coffee house?"
"We were strolling along and simply came across it. It seemed like a quality establishment so we sat at one of the tables lining the pedestrian street."
"Did you or he decide to take that route?"
"Everyone comes past there! It's on the way from the parking lot! Sally, look," - Marilyn moved out to the edge of the seat - "I'm telling you, my friend has nothing to do with it. Nothing! Will you help me or not?"
"Of course I'll help ya, Marilyn. But I need to keep looking at all the options here. A shutterbug randomly poppin' up where you and your beau decide to stop for coffee and lovey-dovey seems mighty suspicious to me. It smells. That's all I'm saying."
As she spoke, Sally went back to her pack of Serrano's cigarettes and knocked out a fresh one. After tapping it against the desk to make sure the tobacco was lined up and ready to go, she struck another match to scorch the smoke's far end.
Marilyn had no reply to the comment, so Sally concentrated on taking a deep puff instead. The pale-gray smoke soon trickled past her hazel eyes that gained a steely edge as she spoke: "All right. Here's what I'm gonna do. Scratch that… here's what we're gonna do, see? You're gonna go back to your hubby and lie low. Concentrate on your indoor hobbies for a while. I'm gonna visit a couple of the watering holes that I know the Pravka fella frequents. When I find 'im, I'm gonna ask 'im real polite-like the whos, the whys, the wheres and the hows. Dig? And that's all you need to know right now."
"Oh… all right," Marilyn said and got up. She fidgeted for a moment or two before she leaned in to place a tender kiss on Sally's lips. A whispered "Thank you," was all she said.
"You're welcome," Sally said, putting a calming hand on the small of her visitor's back to guide her back to the door. "I'll be in touch when I have something worthwhile to report. Don't worry, friend. Sally's on the case.
Marilyn couldn't reply at first because she held a hairpin between her teeth. Once her auburn locks were tied up in a proper bun, she donned the wide-brimmed hat and put on her gloves. She discovered there was really no need to say anything when a grateful smile would suffice, so that's the gesture she made before she left the office.
Sally glanced at her wristwatch once she had closed the office door. Ten past nine. She could either stay at the office with her cigarettes, the bottle of Scotch and the radio broadcast from the Savoy as her companions, or she could jump into her gumshoes, put on the shoulder-holsters, the trench coat and her fedora and head onto the bustling, neon-lit streets of mean, old Mooresburg City.
Grinning, she made a beeline for the hallstand - it was high time for action.
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Her 1938 Ford Coupe remained in a state of acute disrepair after the punishment it had suffered during the case of the stolen mafia ledger back in September, so she walked straight past it as she made her way through the seedy alley behind the office block.
It didn't take her long to reach Eighty-seventh Street that was just as bustling as she had expected. Lighting a cigarette, she began strolling south while she kept an eye out for a vacant taxi cab that would take her to her first port of call.
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Twenty-five minutes later, she paid the cabbie and exited onto the sidewalk halfway down Thirty-eighth Street. Though the soundscape of traffic was the same as everywhere else in the large city, the neighborhood dominated by Eastern European immigrants added its own ingredients to the soup in the shape of constant chattering in various foreign languages.
Occasionally, shouted arguments filtered down onto the sidewalk from the nearby tenements, but when none of the people present in front of the bar Sally was about to check out reacted to the heated exchanges, she surmised it was an everyday occurrence - a distant police siren proved that even everyday occurrences could turn extraordinary at times.
The exterior of Vladek's Bar offered the impression that it was a traditional blue-collar beer hall. There was nothing flashy about the door or the marquee above it, but everything seemed to be well-maintained and clean. The inevitable smell of beer wafted out of the door whenever anyone came or went, but that was obviously part and parcel of such an establishment.
Sally moved inside to have a thorough look-see. A large counter equipped with a row of draft taps dominated the single-room beer hall, but there had been enough space left to cram a handful of wooden tables in as well. A few picture frames that all depicted rural folks in old-fashioned getups were hanging on the walls - undoubtedly someone's relatives back home in the old country.
Business was almost non-existent as only four people were present: Sally, two patrons and a bored-looking bar keep who used a tea towel to wipe down a tumbler. The keep eyed Sally cautiously as she walked up to the counter.
"Hiya, bub. Say, ya wouldn't happen to know where I could find my ol' pal Johan Pravka, would ya?" she said, pushing her fedora back from her brow. She screwed her most winning smile onto her face as she leaned against the counter. To sweeten the deal even further, she held a $5 bill in her palm with the thinly veiled promise that it would literally change hands if the information was good.
The bar keep continued wiping down the tumbler. A short moment went by before he said: "Buy beer or piss off," in a heavily-accented American.
Though Sally kept smiling, it turned hard and cold as steel. The $5 bill disappeared back into a coat pocket. "Gee, that sure wasn't nice, Mista. All I wanted was to find my old pal Johan, see? And then you had to insult me. Me and my friend Mr. Browning don't take too kindly to bein' insulted, see?"
"You alone."
"Oh, I'm never alone," Sally said in a steely tone. Smiling, she moved the trench coat aside to show the gawking bar keep the twin Hi-Powers. Job done, she straightened the coat and once more pushed her hat forward.
The bar keep had stopped wiping down the tumbler at the sight of the pistols and the cosh on the short woman's belt - the look on his face said that he had no idea how to deal with such a walking hardware store. "You cop or gangster?"
"Neither. So… my ol' pal Johan is obviously absent from your fine establishment. I'll bet you know where he might be, though. How about it, bub?"
The man behind the bar shook his head several times. "Here last night but not today yet. Maybe at Tarek's Coffee Mill or Moscow Pool House now. He likes pool."
"Does he? Gee whiz, bub, and there I was, thinkin' that ol' Johan was more of a chess player. Yeah? And where would I find those two hot spots of humanity?"
"Tarek is short way up street. Moscow Pool House over on Forty-first."
"See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Much obliged. Hi de ho, bub," Sally said, tipping her fedora at the puzzled bar keep. She kept a close eye on him at first in case he would reach for a baseball bat or some other kind of weapon hidden under the counter, but all he did was to stand there and stare at her.
Chuckling, Sally left Vladek's Bar and went on her merry way along Thirty-eighth Street. Of the dozen or so shops she passed en route to the next bar, only a small handful had bi-lingual signs in their store windows - and none had signs solely written in English.
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Moving into Tarek's Coffee Mill, she needed to come to a halt to allow her eyes - and her lungs - to adjust to the environment. Not only was the bar's interior bathed in an odd darkness due to its amber-brownish wood panels, massive reams of cloyingly sweet cigarette smoke formed a pale-gray canopy that reached several feet down from the ceiling.
Unlike the semi-empty Vladek's Bar, the Coffee Mill bustled with activity created by what had to be half a neighborhood's worth of exclusively male patrons. Everyone chugged down weapons-grade coffee by the gallon while playing cards, dominos or a strange game involving sticks and dice - and everyone smoked like steam locomotives pulling heavy loads up a steep incline.
The chatter going on among the men was loud and constant with nary an English phrase spoken save for the odd swear word. Sally didn't have enough knowledge of Eastern European or Middle Eastern languages and dialects to know what was being said, but the general mood was cheery and easy-going so it couldn't be all bad.
She reached up under her fedora to scratch her neck. Her chances of even finding Johan Pravka in such a crowd were slim, and getting to talk to him would be almost impossible. Though she knew it would most likely be a waste of time, she proceeded to do a slow tour of the bar's tables. The patrons were all studied closely as she strolled past them on the look-out for Pravka's characteristic figure, but - as expected - nothing came of it.
Three minutes later, she went back outside. An annoyed huff escaped her as she glanced up and down Thirty-eighth Street for any kind of clue that might help her on her seemingly hopeless quest. The last traces of the overly sweet cigarette smoke lived on inside her nose, and she couldn't stop a hard sneeze from bursting through.
Friday evening was just as popular in the ethnic neighborhoods as it was elsewhere in Mooresburg City. Young people on dates strolled along the sidewalk coming from, or going to, movie theaters or dance halls. Mature folks were on their way home from the area's many bodegas, and a few elderly residents were out enjoying one of the rare evenings not blighted by rain.
None of the people nearby could help Sally move onto the next square of her checkers game with the blackmailers, so she folded up her coat's collar, stuck her hands into the deep pockets and set off for Forty-first Street and the Moscow Pool House.
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Similar to the places she had already visited, the pool hall was a couple of steps up from its seediest brethren further downtown, but it was very much a place where the neighborhood's salt-of-the-earth types would gather for chewing the literal and proverbial fat, drinking draft beer and shooting pool with their similarly-minded chums.
The brick building housing the pool hall was squeezed in between an independent corner drugstore and a dressmaker's shop. It had a flat roof that would undoubtedly lead to problems concerning seepage during the rainy season - which happened to be every other day or so from January to December save for the inevitable two-week dry spell come July or August. No less than two drainage pipes connected to the corners of the roof suggested that the owners of the establishment had already tried their best to prevent water from dripping onto the expensive pool tables inside.
A pair of large window panes framed a glass door. The owners' names had been painted onto the windows in a swooping, calligraphic hand, and as to be expected in that particular neighborhood, they contained so many C's, W's, Y's and Z's that American tongues would be tied into pretzels if they ever tried pronouncing them.
Sally eyed the men chatting among themselves outside the Moscow Pool House. As ever, the language they spoke was foreign to her, but their demeanor seemed friendly and - so far - free of any kind of aggression. The men were all burly and clearly manual laborers who seemed to be enjoying their quiet night on the town. None of them appeared to be the type who'd be on the prowl for an illegal alley fight or any of the other violent pastimes some of the neighborhoods were notorious for.
Just to be on the safe side, she reached under her trench coat to check her twin Browning Hi-Powers, the spare magazines and the cosh she had hooked onto her belt. Since nothing stood in her way of meeting the locals, she opened the glass door and ventured inside.
The interior of the Moscow Pool House wasn't as large as she had expected, but there had still been room for four pool tables and two wooden racks holding rental cues and spare frames of balls. Two of the tables were in use by the same type of burly men who seemed ubiquitous in that part of Mooresburg City. Pitcher-sized beer mugs had been placed on the edges of the tables as the fellows walked around to find the best angle for their next shots.
The characteristic Cronkk! could be heard at regular intervals as the tips of the cues struck the defenseless balls. The Cronkks! were most often accompanied by cheers, groans or cursing in an Eastern European dialect - or simply all of the above in rapid succession.
A well-stocked bar and a wooden counter had been set up close to the rear wall. Nobody seemed to tend the bar at present, but the sound of glass bottles clanging together somewhere out of sight seemed to suggest that it had been a good time to clean up a little.
The wooden counter was lined by a row of five tall barstools of which only one was in use. The one in the center was occupied by a short man wearing a well-worn sports blazer and a shapeless hat that was a perfect match with the descriptive given to it by Marilyn Parker: abominable.
Sally squinted at the men playing pool to try to gauge what kind of reaction she should expect from them once she started leaning on the fellow wearing the awful hat. She carried enough firepower to stop everything short of a stampeding elephant, but the bar room didn't seem to have a back door. If push came to shove, and there was a genuine risk of that, it could mean she would need to fight her way out of the establishment.
A grunt escaped her as she reached into one of her coat's pockets to find her cigarettes and trusty Sparkie lighter - the latter was soon used to set the former alight. The smoke trickling past her steely eyes prompted her into strolling up to the counter and the man waiting there.
Johan 'Bull-Nose' Pravka was nobody's model son-in-law. Life may have treated him poorly from his birth onwards, but instead of making lemonade from the lemons he'd been given, he had moved onto a path in life that had seen him progress from tormenting insects as a kid to tormenting people as an adult. Nobody could tell his real age because of his disfigured face, but it didn't matter as nobody gave a damn about him regardless of how old he was.
"Hiya, Joe. It sure is nice to finally meet ya," Sally said, leaning her back against the wooden counter so she could keep an eye on Johan and the burly pool players at the same time. Up close, the man's hat reached a clear ten on the hideous-scale, and the sports blazer with its threadbare sleeves, elbows and cuffs as well as its multitude of stains wasn't far behind. His brown pants seemed cleaner and appeared as if they had been washed at some point during the past month or so.
Pravka looked up at her with barely hidden disdain shooting from his eyes. Grimacing - which made his face even more grotesque - he reached for the smaller of the two beverages that had been placed in front of him. The shot glass contained a clear liquid that he poured down in a single gulp. Once that was gone, he grabbed a full mug of beer and emptied that as well.
"Wow, big boy… you musta been thirsty," Sally said, observing the empty beer mug as it was slammed back on the counter.
Sally's comment earned her a few mumbled words in a foreign language. Though alien in nature, their meaning came across loud and clear which made her chuckle. "Ya don't say? Let's get down to business. I came to your part of our charmin' city 'cos a friend of mine is in a jam. A bad jam, see? And it appears you're the one spreadin' it. Well, let me tell you something, Joe… I love jam. It's gotta be strawberry, though. Not the kind you're dishin' out."
A gravelly "Bug off. I'm busy," finally escaped Johan's vocal cords.
"Yeah, I can see that plain as day. You're a regular Susie Seven-Tasks, aintcha?" Cocking an eyebrow, Sally shot Johan a sarcastic look that sailed clean over his misshapen head.
"You talking shit, woman. Wotcha want?"
Chuckling, Sally knocked off some ash into an ashtray on the counter before she put the cigarette back between her lips. She eyed the burly pool players once more. The guys playing at the table on the left were taking a beer-break, but the other two continued their own game. "Eh. Not much, Joe. Except… who took those pictures? Who gave them to you? And what's your stake in all this?"
The questions about something the P.I. shouldn't have any knowledge of finally made Pravka sit up straight and take notice. Turning toward Sally, he bared his teeth in another grimace that would have made most mirrors crack. "You think I be stupid enough to tell who? If I tell who, they kill me. And they pay me two-hundred."
Sally nodded a couple of times before she stubbed out the cigarette. "Well, you might get a whole lot more than that, Joe."
"You pay five-hundred?"
"No, I was thinking more along the lines of ten-to-fifteen in the State Pen."
Johan tried to furrow his brow but was unable to - it didn't matter as the confused look in his eyes proved he didn't understand the finer points of Sally's comment. "You say what?"
"Ten to fifteen years in the Big House, Joe. Extortion is a federal offense, see?"
A shadowy figure moving into Sally's peripheral vision off to her right made her squint in that direction. The figure proved to be the bartender returning from whatever he had been doing out back. Unlike most of the visitors of the Moscow Pool House, the keep was a skinny, clean-shaven fellow in his late twenties. His military-style crew cut and the set of dog tags around his neck hinted at him being a de-mobilized G.I. back from Europe or the Pacific theater.
The bartender never said a word - obviously not wanting to get involved in anything - but simply took Johan's empty glasses and dunked them in a bowl of soapsuds.
Sally observed the young man and his actions for a moment or two until she decided he wasn't a threat. Instead, she turned back to Johan. "Perhaps we can hammer out a deal between us, Joe. You talked about five C-notes? Five slices of lettuce for a little tweedle-dee about who-"
"I will not tell who," Pravka said vehemently. "Not for thousand dollars. Not for anything."
"All right. Forget the who and the why, Joe. I'll figure that out myself."
Several long beats went by before Johan reached up under his horrible hat to scratch his thinning hair. "But… then what you mean?"
"I want the pictures. Do you still have them?"
"Yes…"
"Where are the negatives?"
Johan's eyebrows twitched as if he was trying to furrow his brow again. He shook his head while he said: "No, the pictures are normal-"
"I meant the original roll of film, Joe."
"I only got pictures."
An annoyed "Mmmmm," escaped Sally as she turned to observe the four pool players. The fact that two of them were looking back at her instead of continuing their game made her slide a hand inside her trench coat to keep it near the hilt of one of the Hi-Powers. "Tell ya what… if you wanna earn four-hundred bucks-"
"It was five before!"
"Yeah, but then you told me you don't know about the negatives, yeah? Which makes it an even four. See? If you wanna earn four-hundred bucks, deliver the pictures to my office tomorrow at noon. All the pictures they gave you. Once you've done that, I suggest you clean the slate and find a new cow pasture elsewhere. All right? Are you with me?"
"But… where is office?"
"Seven-one-one-nine Eighty-seventh Street. Don't shout it from the rooftops, Joe."
"You strange, woman… you confuse me," Johan said, shaking his head over and over. "But I come. I come with pictures. And you give five-hundred!"
The two street-wise people - who couldn't be more different if they tried - engaged in the kind of steely-eyed stare-down that was best described as a No Retreat And Never Surrender-type of situation. Sally won the spontaneous battle of backbone on the strength of the fire in her greenish-hazel orbs.
Johan Pravka nodded in defeat as he withdrew from the conflict. To compensate for the loss, he waved the bartender over to get another vodka-and-beer one-two combination.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Joe. Noon sharp. I presume you know how to tell time? Don't answer that," Sally said and pushed herself away from the tall barstool. The pool players were still keeping an eye on her, so she moved along the bar counter until she reached a section that could flip open.
Despite the bartender's vocal dissatisfaction, she walked into the bar's back area to find another way out. Holding a winning hand for a change, a back door presented itself to her at the far end of a narrow hallway. It didn't take long before she found herself in a smelly back alley somewhere behind Forty-first Street. Her sense of direction didn't let her down, and she was soon headed for the street itself.
---
As the familiar sights and sounds of the busy city streets once more filled her senses, she lit a cigarette, folded up her coat's collar and tagged onto the tail-end of a group of late-evening revelers moving from 'A' to 'God Knows Where' so she could slip away from the pool hall unseen.
*
*
ACT II
Seven hours later, at 8:30 in the morning of Saturday, October 25th, Sally exited the small bathroom in her office after taking care of some morning business, washing her ears and neck, and wet-combing her hair to make her look presentable once more.
She quickly made the sofa bed so it wouldn't look like someone had wrestled a mountain lion - it had done its job well and had left her refreshed and ready for the day's activities. One of the items on her agenda was the visit by Johan 'Bull-Nose' Pravka, but that would literally come later.
The first item on her to-do list was to get breakfast. On weekdays, she would just pick up the phone and call the bookie Ira Birnbaum's office next door to ask their shared secretary Victoria 'Vicky' Prince to take care of everything, but not only did Vicky always have Saturdays off, Birnbaum and their regular bakery, Zeligman's, both observed the Sabbath and were thus closed for business. In short, Sally would have to organize her own breakfast for a change.
---
At 9:45 sharp, she returned to the office after a healthy serving of flapjacks and steaming-hot black coffee at Norton's Diner over on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Foulton Avenue. The day's copy of the Mooresburg City Gazette was thrown onto the desk before she took off her fedora, her trench coat and a sports blazer. She left her shoulder-holster on as she sat down on the swivel-chair in front of the pleasantly warm cast-iron radiator.
After lighting a Serrano's Special Blend from the new pack she had bought at a tobacco shop on her way back, she grabbed the Gazette and put her gumshoes up on the corner of the desk. The wooden chair creaked as the weight shifted but she knew it would hold up.
The broadsheet Gazette was cumbersome to read at anything but a large table, but she folded it up twice to make it easier. Her hazel eyes skimmed the front page's headlines. The developing story of the past few days had been the uncovering of widespread corruption at City Hall, and the journalists behind the scoop had a further few nuggets of scandalous seediness to share with their readers.
"Gee whiz, the politicians are crooked. So what else is new?" Sally mumbled as her eyes stopped here and there to get up to date with the events of the previous day.
A grunt escaped her when she reached page four. A grainy photograph of an elderly, but certainly distinguished, gentleman took up a portion of the upper part of the page, so she folded the newspaper again to read the article connected to the photo. The headline said: 'Judge Clarence Parker in line for a Supreme Court position?'
"Now isn't that interesting… the old geezer might join the real big wigs, eh?" she said, moving her legs down from the corner of the desk. The action caused the ash to fall off the tip of the cigarette, but she simply brushed off her shirt without even looking. "Why, that's the perfect pot of gold for that nasty, little extortion racket against Marilyn! Like hell those SOB's were gonna send the pictures to the press… they were gonna use 'em to have a permanent squeeze on a Justice on the Supreme Court!"
Nodding to herself, Sally briefly looked at the rest of the news on page four before she put the folded-up Gazette on the desk. A brief glance at her wristwatch proved it was an acceptable time to call the Parker mansion even on a Saturday.
The black receiver was soon pinned between her chin and her shoulder so she could have her hands free to take notes. "Hello, operator? I'm on a local line needin' to get in touch with someone outside my grid. Would ya mind patchin' me through to Astoria six-eight-seven-eight- whazzat? They need to vet all incoming calls? Makes sense. Well, okay then… so patch me through to the fellas in charge of that. Yeah, I'll hold."
The break in proceedings suited Sally fine as her cigarette had been smoked down to the ring on the paper marking the final spot before one's nose would be scorched. The situation called for something a little more refined, so she reached into her desk's top drawer to find a wooden case of Senator cheroots.
Her trusty Sparkie lighter soon took care of business the old-fashioned way which meant she could release a large, pale-gray cloud of rich smoke that wafted up toward the broken ceiling fan.
A voice speaking into her ear made her snap back to the matters at hand. "Hiya, pal. I'm Sally Swackhamer, licensed Private Investigator. I need to get in touch with Missus Marilyn Parker- huh? Yeah, she'll know my name. Sorry, bub, I can't give ya any details. Nope. She's on the tennis court? You need to get her, see, 'cos this is important. No, I really don't feel like waitin' until noon. Yeah, I'll hold."
Leaning back on the swivel-chair, Sally started whistling through her teeth to kill time. Several minutes went by. The cheroot was savored, the newspaper was given another quick glance - the Wholesome Wilhelmina comic strip on the funny pages was always chuckleworthy - and a desire to sample the delights of one of the bottles in her filing cabinets had time to develop. Only then did she hear the familiar voice of Marilyn Parker at the other end of the connection.
"Hiya, Marilyn. It's me, Sally. I've spoken to the fella who gave you the squeeze- yeah, the ugly one. Yeah. I managed to persuade him to come by the office at noon and hand over the photographs- yeah. He kinda realized he was in way over his head so I think he'll be happy to offload 'em. Four hundred bucks. Huh? No, you don't have to reimburse me. It's all in a day's work. He'll be by at noon. Yeah. No, there's no need for you to be here… actually, I want you to lie low until I call you. Those palookas can be a strange and unpredictable breed sometimes, see? That's why God invented the automatic pistol. Marilyn, whoa the mule for a moment… there's something I gotta do."
After putting the receiver on the desk's blotting pad, Sally got up and made a beeline for the filing cabinet labeled 'C.' It was a little too early in the day for a Scotch, even for her, but there was always room for a shot of Ashburne Castle Cream Liqueur. The pale-brown liquid was soon poured into a shot glass that she brought back to the desk. Once her feet were up on the corner, she put the cheroot in the ashtray, grabbed the receiver and picked up the small glass - the first sip of the sweet liqueur was duly taken a moment later.
"Okay, I'm back. Thanks for waitin'. Listen, have you had time to ponder who the brains behind it might be? I read the article in the Gazette about your hubby. Lemme tell ya, that's incentive enough right there. No, I can't imagine the two won't be connected. No. They're going through you to get to him- yes, I know your hubby is dandy with your arrangement, but it would cause a fine-ol' mess if it got leaked to the public. And that's the squeeze right there, see? You still can't think of anyone who could- okay."
The sound of an engine revving wildly down on Eighty-seventh Street caught Sally's attention. On sheer instinct, she looked over at the window directly above the radiator despite knowing she wouldn't be able to see through the lowered blinds.
The street's perpetual congestion usually meant that even the most impatient drivers were forced to wait in line regardless of their short-tempered state of mind, but it did happen on rare occasions that someone threw caution to the wind and used the opposite lane to race past the tin cans that were still lined up like a row of ducklings.
A loud, violent Thump! soon echoed across the street - the hideous sound crawled up the brick walls until it reached Sally's office windows. Someone shouted. Someone else shouted louder. And finally someone else entirely let out a long, terrified scream.
"What the hell?" Sally mumbled before she threw the receiver onto the desk and jumped up from the swivel-chair. She kept the glass of cream liqueur in her left hand as she used the right one to split the blinds. It only took her a second to figure out that a car had mowed down a pedestrian - though unpleasant to watch, it wasn't the first nor would it be the last such accident on Eighty-seventh Street.
She was in the process of taking a sip when it dawned on her that the victim wore a threadbare sports blazer and that a hat best described as ugly-as-sin had ended up a few feet from its former bearer.
Sally's eyes bugged out on stalks when the driver of the car that had run Johan Pravka over calmly stepped out and raised his right arm. The driver wore shiny, black shoes, dark-gray pants, a dark-gray fedora and a black trench coat. The coat's collar had been folded up to obscure all but the most common features: a nose, lips and a chin.
A roared "Sonovabitch!" burst out of Sally's throat as she clapped eyes on the black .45 held aloft by the assailant. The subsequent half-second was spent looking at herself - she still wore the shoulder-holster and her gumshoes.
The next half-second after the revelation saw her sprinting out of the office and hanging a hard left. She stormed along the hallway, onto the staircase's landing and down the internal fire escape. Another loud curse escaped her when she heard the familiar hard reports produced by the trigger man's .45.
---
Finally blasting out of the fire escape and onto the street, Sally whipped her Hi-Power out of its holster and sprinted toward the scene of the crime. "Toss that rod! Now! Toss it, ya dumb schmuck or I'm gonna give ya lead poisoning! Somebody call the flatfeet and a sawbones!"
The city wolf in the dark clothes - who could really only be a professional hitman judging by his iciness - knelt next to what was left of Johan Pravka as if he was looking for something, but he jumped to his feet when he became aware of the impending threat. Although he held up the .45 and aimed it at the short figure storming toward him, there was no time to engage in any kind of running-and-gunning as several police sirens were already drawing near from more than one street.
Another dark car burst onto the scene and came to a screeching halt. A man dressed similarly to the shooter leaned out of the driver's side window and shouted something that was lost in the general madness of the scene. At once, the hitman tore over to the waiting car that soon took off in a cloud of pale-blue oil smoke and dirt-brown street dust.
"Sonovabitch!" Sally roared, changing direction mid-step to check up on Johan Pravka - she didn't need to get any closer than ten feet to see that he was deader than a door post. The hitman had shot him twice: once in the center of the forehead to make sure he was dead, and once in the throat to make those who found him understand that yakking to the wrong people would always lead to a messy death.
The police vehicles were literally just around the corner, but Sally still went into a crouch next to the dead man to pat down his pockets. A surprised grunt escaped her when she found a bulging envelope in the right-hand-side pocket of his sports blazer. Its thickness could come from either a wad of dollar bills or a stack of incendiary photographs.
It wouldn't have been proper to take the cash, but the photographs were fair game - they were why Pravka had been there in the first place. In short, she peeked into it to know for sure. The envelope proved to be full of crisp, black-and-white photographs.
Grunting again, she slipped the entire envelope in between two buttons of her khaki shirt. The bulge stood out like a sore thumb next to her flat stomach, so she pushed the envelope further down toward her leather waistbelt - a little wiggling eventually made it disappear behind the belt.
Two squad cars raced onto the scene to brew even an even larger witches' cauldron of hubbub. No less than four uniformed police officers of the ruddy, red-headed, Irish kind swarmed out of each of the cars, and they were soon conducting traffic and keeping the shocked spectators at bay - one of which was a certain S. Swackhamer, P.I. whose features were locked in a fierce scowl.
She glanced at the car the hitman had used to mow down Johan Pravka. It appeared to be a pre-war Ford Business Saloon from 1934 or 1935. Water poured from the cracked radiator after the impact had caused the grille to cave in and the hood to buckle. The lack of a rear license plate seemed to suggest that the Ford had been appropriated for the exact purpose of vehicular murder.
The uniformed officers hadn't yet seen the bullet wounds on Johan's body so they treated it as a simple hit-and-run - that would obviously change once the ambulance crew would arrive on the scene. Sally had no intention of sticking around for that, so she spun around on her heel and stomped back to the door that lead to the internal fire escape.
-*-*-*-
Once she had returned to her office, she put the receiver to her ear to check if the connection was still active. The line had gone silent indicating that either Marilyn Parker or the operator had come to the conclusion that there had been some kind of technical malfunction somewhere.
Shrugging, she put the receiver back on the hook before she made a beeline for the filing cabinet labeled 'W' - the bottle of Black Knight Scotch was soon put on the desk. Instead of getting yet another tumbler dirty, she put the bottle to her lips and simply took a long swig of the potent amber liquid. The Scotch set fire to her gullet at first but it was only temporary.
Johan Pravka's condition was anything but temporary, and Sally took another swig to pay her respects to the poor Joe whose fears about what his business associates might do if they found out had been proven right. That thought led her to the photographs in the envelope. Digging it out of her shirt, she spread the series of candids on the desk.
Her chin was given a severe rubbing as she studied the photographs that all showed two people sitting at a serving table outside an upscale cafe. None of them contained saucier material than a stolen glance here or a shy smile there. No holding hands, no kissing and certainly no hanky-panky underneath the table. In short, they might as well have been snapped at a convent.
The moment called for another Senator cheroot. The one she had started before all the brouhaha had burned itself into a pile of ash, so she grabbed a new one from the wooden case and lit it at once. Soon, another cloud of rich smoke rose toward the ceiling.
Sally's trusty magnifying glass - no self-respecting private eye would go without one - was soon brought into play, but even the closest of inspections cast no light on the puzzling photographs. The only thing she had noticed was that Marilyn didn't wear her wedding band for the semi-secret rendezvous, but that was hardly enough to kick such a blackmailing scheme into life. After all, nine out of ten housewives would take off their rings and other types of jewelry when carrying out their regular chores around their homes, and that never made the news.
Leaning back on the creaking swivel-chair, Sally took several deep puffs of the cheroot to give her gray matter something to work with. As the smoke wafted past her eyes, she began rummaging through the stack of photographs to find the one that had the best angle of Marilyn's date.
The magnifying glass was brought into play once more. The man, who was in his mid-thirties and thus a good decade younger than Marilyn Parker, wore a standard business suit, a white shirt and a dark tie. A regular pin held his necktie in place. Each of the suit jacket's sleeves was equipped with a pair of pale cufflinks that didn't appear to be made of a precious metal.
He was handsome if not quite on the level of a matinee idol. His chin was strong and heroic, and the rest of his face bore excellent symmetry. The photograph showed him looking at Marilyn with an honest face and smiling eyes - certainly no sinister undertones there. A pencil-thin mustache graced his upper lip. The eyebrows and the slicked-back hair appeared black on the black-and-white photo so they were most likely dark-brown in real life.
A "Hmmm…" escaped Sally as she leaned back once more. "What the hell am I missing? Or more to the point, what the hell did those palookas see here that I don't? Either this isn't the full set of photos, or… or… or… something. Dammit."
Getting up in a huff, she peeked through the blinds to get up to speed on the events down on Eighty-seventh Street. The uniformed police continued to conduct traffic and keep the spectators well back from the grisly sight. A plainclothes detective crouched next to the dead body. The ambulance crew had shifted their attentions from their initial task of treating a supposed hit-and-run victim to taking care of a few bumps and scrapes among the passers-by. A black panel van from the Mooresburg City Coroner had arrived at the scene, but the dark-clad gentlemen remained passive while the detective tried to gather enough information to work out what had happened.
"Swell. I might as well go down there to get the law on the right track," Sally mumbled as she straightened her necktie that she had pulled loose when she needed to have room to think. To avoid losing a second Senator cheroot, she stubbed it out carefully so she could resume smoking it later.
She picked one of her daytime jackets - a classic blazer held chiefly in pale-brown except for the dark-brown leather patches used to reinforce the elbows - before she plonked her fedora onto her locks and left the office.
---
Sally had soon made her way down to the hubbub on the sidewalk. One of the ruddy, read-headed beat cops prevented her from moving beyond a certain point, but she caught the detective's attention by waving her fedora at him: "Say, Mista Detective! I got a notion we oughtta flap our gums a little. I knew the deceased, see?" When the detective okayed it, the uniformed beat cop waved her through the ranks of onlookers.
"Hiya, bub. Sally Swackhamer, Private Investigator," Sally said, putting out her hand.
The detective narrowed his eyes as he took in the sight of the unusual woman approaching him. Nevertheless, the traditional handshake was soon carried out. "Detective First Class Mike Moran, Homicide Division, Nineteenth Precinct. You knew this man?"
"A-yup," Sally said, looking down at the Earthly remains of Johan Pravka.
The early-forty-something Mike Moran was dressed like most of his colleagues among the plainclothesmen: sensible shoes, brown corduroy pants, a white shirt that wasn't as clean and fresh as it had been at the start of his sixteen-hour shift, a brown necktie clearly knitted by a family member, and finally a suit jacket that was perhaps a half-size too small for his six-foot-two, 190 lbs. frame - unusually, he didn't wear a hat which left his sandy hair at the mercy of the breeze.
The five-o'clock shade on his chin and the dark areas under his dark-blue eyes proved he had been close to the end of his shift when the call had come. "So," he said as he found his notepad and a pencil, "let me hear about him."
Sally took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as she peeked down at the corpse. The blood and various chunks of this-and-that that had seeped from the black hole in his forehead had coagulated, but it didn't make the sight any less ghoulish. "His name was Johan Pravka. Don't ask me to spell it. Street name 'The Bull-Nose.' For obvious reasons."
Moran updated his notes before he looked at the body's disfigured face. A grunt escaped him before he made another note on the pad. "Was he an informant of yours?"
"Nope, but he was connected to an ongoing case. I met him for the first time last night at the Moscow Pool House down on Forty-first Street. It's in the Slavic neighborhood. We had an appointment at noon, but I guess he came early to stake out my office."
"What kind of ongoing case?" Moran said, shooting Sally such a withering glare that the knees of any ordinary citizen would have been transmitting a funeral dirge in Morse code.
Sally just grinned - the Homicide Detective's pointed stare was nothing she hadn't seen a hundred times already. "Oh, a top-secret one. Smoke?" she said, reaching into her jacket pocket for a pack of Serrano's and her Sparkie lighter.
"No, thank you. What happened here? One in the head and one in the throat… that's unusual."
The lighter's flame soon coaxed the cigarette into setting its tobacco alight. "Well, yes and no," Sally said while taking a deep puff. "Popping someone in the throat is rarely seen here, but it's pretty common elsewhere in our fair city. I only caught the ass-end of it, but I got the gist of what had been goin' on. The hatchetmen used that Flivver over there, see?" - Sally pointed the cigarette at the wrecked Ford - "To mow down Mista Pravka. He landed here. Some lady or another let out a shriek which caught my attention. I looked outta my window up there, see? I saw a wolf coming from the Flivver with his roscoe at the ready-"
"Can you describe him?"
"Nope. Dark hat and a dark coat with the collar folded up. Like I said, a real wolf. In any case… I stormed down here but was too late 'cos the gun-toter had already drilled poor Pravka twice. I matched his Ace of Spades with my own iron but I held back 'cos I was reluctant to swap lead with all these bystanders around, see? And then he was scooped up by an associate in another dark car. They raced off at high speed. No license plate that I could see… just like the steaming wreck over there."
Detective Moran chewed on his lips as he finished taking notes. He took a long look at the sidewalk and the street's inner lane. "No brass. Either he picked them up or the gun he used was in fact a revolver-"
Sally shook her head. "Nope again. It was a standard issue .45 pistol. A black Nineteen-Eleven. Couldn't say whether it was a genuine Colt or one of the other manufacturers. Hell, it might have been a war surplus for all I know."
"Mmmm. Are you packing heat now?"
"A-yup," Sally said, moving her jacket aside to show the shoulder-holster and the hilt of the Browning Hi-Power. "My permit is upstairs in my office in case you wanna study it."
Mike Moran glanced up at the office windows. "There's no need for that. Was this Pravka fellow involved in underworld activities?"
Sally took a deep puff of the Serrano's before she replied: "Regular shady business at the most. I can't imagine he'd be in any of the larger organizations. Of course, I don't know how the Slavic syndicates are organized. If anything, he worked as a bruiser. Perhaps as a collector of back rent or other kinds of debts. You know. The standard stuff."
Detective Moran took in the sight of Pravka's knuckles that all bore the typical signs of having been used for more than flipping coins. "You may be right. And with a face like that… hm." A break developed before Moran closed his notepad and stuck it into his liner pocket. "Thank you for your cooperation, Miss… ah?"
"Swackhamer. Sally Swackhamer. Licensed Private Eye," Sally said with a grin.
Detective Moran nodded a couple of times. "We'll be in touch in case we have further questions."
"I'm sure you will," Sally said, grinning once more. Extending her hand, she and the Detective performed the traditional greeting before the latter walked over to the panel van from the City Coroner.
Sally kept standing at the curb a moment longer, but she had little interest in seeing Johan Pravka's remains dumped into the transport coffin so she eventually turned around and left.
---
Back upstairs, she had to race along the hallway for the second time that day as the shrill tones bursting out of her office proved that her telephone was ringing.
She wasted no precious time taking off her jacket or her fedora but went directly over to the desk and the black telephone. A breathless "I'm here. Who's this?" was uttered before she hooked her leg around the swivel-chair's base to pull it closer. "Oh… hiya, Marilyn. Yeah, we sorta got cut off there."
The latest cigarette was almost down to the ring so it was soon stubbed out in the ashtray. The radiator behind her back continued to run at its maximum which meant wearing the blazer and the felt hat turned excessively hot within moments. Getting rid of the fedora was easy enough, but the jacket proved a little more troublesome given she only had one hand free for the task. She eventually managed to get it off and dump it on the floor for later.
"Well, Marilyn, this is one of those good news, kinda-bad news types of deals," Sally continued as she pushed off her gumshoes and let them join the jacket on the floor. "Yeah. Good news is that you don't hafta worry about running into the fella who rattled ya. Yeah, the disfigured one. In any case, he got here early, but the exchange didn't exactly go to plan so he kinda left early, too, see? No, he didn't want more money. No. It doesn't matter 'cos I have the photos. Yep."
Pulling the swivel-chair and herself fully back to the desk, Sally studied the black-and-whites that continued to take up a great portion of the available space. "But Marilyn… honestly… I don't see it. Yeah? I just don't see why the hell someone thinks they can accomplish anything blackmailing you and possibly your hubby with these photos. You and your beau act like brother and sister, for cryin' out loud. I saw raunchier pictures in Sunday school!"
Sally chuckled at Marilyn's surprised reaction at the other end of the connection. "You bet your diamond earrings I was in Sunday school! For a couple of months, anyway. No, they threw me out. Yeah. I guess it had something to do with Mother Superior developing a bad case of nervous hysteria by the tenth time I was sent to her office for a spanking."
Another chuckle followed while Sally collected the photographs. Tapping them into an orderly stack, she put the bundle back into the envelope that Johan Pravka had brought her. The photograph on top failed to go in with the others when it caught the jagged edge of the envelope.
She had already reached out to shove it in when she reconsidered her actions and pulled the top one back out instead. "On a more serious note… a thought just came to me. What if we got this back-asswards? What if your beau is the intended target? What if those palookas don't even know you're married to Judge Parker? I mean, Parker is a fairly common surname, yeah? Marilyn, in all honesty, it's time for you to disclose his name. Oh, and his marital status if you know it- yeah, I know I'm way over the line. It can't be helped, see? These fellas are cold as ice and won't stop- you don't wanna know. No. Trust me."
Such a long break developed in the conversation that Sally had time to scrunch up her face and reach for her pack of Serrano's. The box of matches came to her rescue once more, and the first puff was soon coating the insides of her lungs. When Marilyn spoke on, Sally leaned forward and picked up her notepad and a pencil. "How ya spell that? Okay… okay, I got it. And he insists he's on the free market? All right. I'll check- yeah, I'll get back to you if I discover he's a two-timer. Of course."
Once Sally had finished updating her notepad, she leaned back on the swivel-chair. "There's something else. Ya need to stay off the red carpet for a while. Well, because the palookas who had the scary man on a leash not only lost the pictures but failed to obtain the five grand- yeah, exactly. Ya could- pardon? Okay, I was gonna suggest you rented a vacation cottage somewhere on the coast, but I guess two weeks in Geneva would work too… Marilyn, I promise that everything will be squared by the time you get back. Cross my heart. All right? Okay. Yeah, I'll remember to duck. Yeah. Hi de ho for now, friend. Hey, send me a postcard from Switzerland, yeah?"
Once the receiver was back on the hook, Sally gave the photos another brief study. Her most recent theory - that it was in fact the beau who had attracted the attentions of the goons - was sound, but it was more difficult to prove.
Putting the photographs away, she looked at the words she had scribbled on her notepad. "Dimitris Stefanidou. Commodities broker. Allegedly. Widower. Also allegedly. Not of old money so he won't be listed in Bigelow's Directory of VIPs. Hmmm… perhaps ol' Smithy has something on 'im."
Sally slapped the notepad against her palm in a gesture that hinted at imminent action. She had already risen from the swivel-chair to get dressed for a little excursion when she noticed she had never had time to put her shoes and her jacket over on the hallstand.
---
Fully dressed in her gumshoes, the sports blazer, the trench coat and the fedora, she took a long swig of whisky, fished out a new Serrano's, lit it and finally walked out of the office. Her destination: the Records & Research Bureau of the Mooresburg City Gazette newspaper.
-*-*-*-
A forty-floor high-rise on Sixteenth Street formed the base of operations for the Gazette. Built specifically for the newspaper, the Art Deco building was equipped with a double-height ground floor that saw all the printing presses and the storage facilities for the gigantic rolls of paper required to print the daily news.
The loading bays for the newspaper's own fleet of delivery vans and trucks were located directly at the sidewalk so no time would be wasted when they were released into the busy traffic - that pedestrians often had to run for their lives when a vehicular column akin to a war-time armored attack blasted across the sidewalk was another story entirely.
The floors above the presses held the editorial offices for the various weekly sections. The sports journalists had an entire floor to themselves, but others, like the team responsible for the Home & Garden section, needed to share with their colleagues from similar smaller-scale fields of interest.
That the Gazette's legal department and its army of well-dressed, expensive lawyers and advisors needed two entire floors up near the top of the high-rise was the source of many a caustic comment among the journalists and reporters, but nobody had anything bad to say about the newspaper's owners who occupied the penthouse - unlike the Bugle, the Chronicle and the Times that had all been bought out by big-money conglomerates from the West Coast, the Gazette was still owned by the founding family who were real newspaper-people, not bean-counters.
Sally's taxi cab continued to inch its way through the busy traffic. Seemingly half of Mooresburg City's residents had taken to the streets to get the most out of what could very well be the last decent Saturday before November would bring its endless, depressing parade of showers and icy winds.
Many were going to the famed Orchid Gardens convention hall over on the East Side where several boxing championships were to be decided over the course of the afternoon and evening, including a World Heavyweight match-up scheduled for twelve rounds. Others simply swarmed to the public parks for a stroll by themselves or arm-in-arm with a loved one.
All that activity caused a severe dent in the mood of the people whose livelihoods were made on the streets, but it was impossible to say whether the beat cops, the crooks or the cabbies grumbled the loudest - the one holding the steering wheel in the taxi cab Sally was driving in certainly didn't mince his words about the current state of affairs.
Chuckling to herself at the inventive vocabulary, Sally eventually dug out her wallet to pay the fare. She added another $10 bill to sweeten the cabbie's heartburn before she got out to travel the rest of the distance on foot.
The high-rise was easy enough to find as its intricate Art Deco design features made it stand out among the other tall buildings in the zone. Although her destination was still two full city blocks away, her gumshoes were accustomed to pounding the beat, so off she went.
-*-*-*-
The loading bays at the ground floor were all devoid of vans and trucks at that time of the day as 10:15 AM was the exact halfway point between the distribution of the large morning edition and the smaller evening version. It meant that walking past the huge gates to the newspaper's inner workings was a cakewalk for the countless pedestrians who were out and about.
Sally made a right-hand turn off the sidewalk and onto the ramp that led to the ground floor. She took a final puff of the Serrano's that had been dangling from the corner of her mouth.
Loud, bright-red No Smoking! signs were hanging everywhere to warn smokers of the dangers of introducing fire to the environment that consisted of nothing but gigantic rolls of paper and even larger vats of ink - in case visitors insisted on their right to smoke, the security detail manning the gates weren't afraid of strong-arming them back onto the sidewalk.
Sally bent down to stub out the cigarette on the concrete ramp. There was too much of it left to throw away, so she put it back into the pack once she had made sure the embers were extinguished. Job done, she walked over to the access booth to introduce herself to the security guard sitting there.
"Hiya, bub," she said, tipping her fedora before leaning her elbow on the wooden booth. Although the printing presses were nearly 100 yards away from the gates, the mechanical symphony produced by the large machines was loud enough to necessitate stressing her words: "Sally Swackhamer, P.I. to see Albert Smith. Better known as the big cheese of the Records and Research Bureau."
The security guard gave Sally's shirt-and-necktie combo a puzzled look but soon broke out in a shrug. Picking up a receiver, he dialed the internal number for the bureau in question. It wasn't long before he allowed Sally into the inner sanctum by giving her a VISITOR badge that she pinned to the lapel of her trench coat at once. "Gee whiz, bub, that's mighty swell of ya. Catch ya on the back swing, yeah? Hi de ho," she said as she made her way across the smooth concrete floor en route to the elevators that would take her to the upper floors.
---
Sally had been there often enough so she had no trouble finding the correct door once she had landed on the seventh floor - to provide a clue for first-time visitors and other newspaper virgins, the words Records & Research Bureau had been stencilled onto a frosted pane.
The Bureau was an oasis of tranquility amid all the hectic goings-on elsewhere in the high-rise. Dozens of metal filing cabinets and tall stacks of new and old newspapers dominated the large, open office. Four desks had been crammed in between all the cabinets leaving very little floorspace for a footpath that snaked its way through the office.
A research staffer worked at each of the four desks. All were middle-aged women, and all wore square, black reading glasses that seemed to have come from the same optician - comically, they all had their hair up in a bun akin to the popular image of a stern schoolmarm. Moving in perfect synchronicity with each other, they turned as one to look at Sally as she entered the office.
Sally let out a chuckle as she counted eight eyes staring at her. After closing the door behind her, she pushed her fedora back from her brow and put her hands on her hips. "Hiya. Sally Swackhamer, P.I. Remember me? No? Gee, I oughtta feel insulted. Is Smithy in his office, or…?"
One of the four staffers delivered a one-word, one-syllable reply before she returned to her work of gathering information from a stack of newspapers, books and magazines: it happened to be a "Yes."
"Gee whiz! Ya certainly don't overstress your vocal cords, do ya?" Sally said, letting out a guffaw. The only way over to the door to the inner office was through the maze-like path, so she pushed her hat forward again and set off on her quest.
Halfway through the journey, she whipped off her fedora to pretend to wipe her brow. "Jumpin' Jehoshaphat! It wasn't this far the last time I was here… I shoulda brought a knapsack!" she said before she plonked the hat back on her golden locks. Although she had been fishing for a chuckle or two, all she got out of her efforts were a deep sigh, a slight shaking of the head and a scandalized 'Well, I never!'
Knocking on the door to the inner office took little time once she had made it there. A gruff 'Enter!' soon filtered through the door. Stepping inside the office - that saw its own vast collection of metal filing cabinets but nothing at all when it came to cutesy knick-knacks - she made a beeline for the central desk and the man working at it.
The office was bare-bones and utilitarian wherever she looked. The furniture was of a simple, square-edged design and the walls were held in two shades of gray: 'Downcast' and 'Even Worse.'
No personal effects graced the walls or the desk save for a small wooden frame that held a Purple Heart medal. Two reading lamps that each cast a cone of light onto the blotting pad at the center of the desk took care of the lighting. A square, black box placed on the desk within easy reach was an intercom unit used to communicate between the two offices.
Albert Smith was a large fellow in his mid-sixties whose white hair and tastefully-sized whiskers presented a warm, cuddly, grandfatherly image as he sat behind his desk. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt and a dark-blue necktie that sat inch-perfect. His blue eyes were friendly, and the dimples on his fuzzy cheeks seemed to suggest that his face was locked in a constant smile.
Unfortunately, all those attributes couldn't be further from the truth as 'Smithy' was in fact a former American Expeditionary Forces trench sergeant who had gone on to work as a uniformed police officer after the Great War.
The anniversary bonus he had received from the upper echelons of the police force after twenty-five years of service wading through the human flotsam in the inner-city boroughs had amounted to a gold watch and a kick out in the cold to make way for the next generation. Now in his third career, he ran the Records & Research Bureau with the same kind of steely discipline and Blood And Guts mentality required by his former posts.
He had no wife waiting for him back home with pork chops and gravy, no hobbies worth mentioning, no favorite pastimes beyond going to the occasional baseball game, and certainly no weaknesses or vices - except one that had seen him land in a jam that Sally had helped him out of in her inimitable style. Thus, the stern fellow actually broke out in a rare smile when he clapped eyes on her.
"Well, if it isn't! Long time no see, Sally. Are you working on some kind of case?" he said, reaching across the desk to shake hands with the visitor.
Once Sally had completed the greeting, she took off her trench coat and pulled over the only chair that didn't have a stack of newspapers hogging its seat. As expected, the chair was lower than Smithy's so the visitors would have to look up when they spoke to the bureau chief. "Yep. I'm looking for information about someone, Smithy," she said, crossing her legs at the knee.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Sally continued, digging into one of the pockets of her blazer to find her notepad. "Everything you have on a… huh… Dimitris Stefanidou. I probably butchered that, but what the hay. He's allegedly a commodities broker and a widower. There's a funny smell about him, if you know what I mean."
"Dimitri? A Russki?"
"No, there's an S at the end. Dimitris. He's Greek."
"Oh. Is he a crook?"
"Well, that's what I'm hoping to dig up, see?"
Nodding, Smithy pressed a button on the intercom installed on the desk. "Mrs. Fecklund, report to the office at once," he said before leaning back on his chair.
A scant ten seconds went by before the door opened to reveal one of the four staffers. The dour-looking lady stepped inside and folded her hands in front of her.
Smithy gestured at Sally as he spoke: "Mrs. Fecklund, we need all the information you can find on a Mister… what's that weird name again, Sally?"
"Dimitris Stefanidou," Sally said, reading aloud from her notepad. "Ya need me to spell it out or something?"
A dry "No," proved to be the only reply out of Mrs. Fecklund before she left the office to get on with the search.
Sally chuckled as she put away the notepad. The square chair and her round backside weren't the best of chums, so she had to shuffle around to find a better spot that would satisfy both parties. The shuffling caused the creases in her pants to be twisted, but they were soon straightened out so she was back looking her finest.
While that had been going on, Smithy had doodled his signature at the foot-end of a collection of papers containing direct quotes, extrapolated data and the general timeline of the Gazette's recent expose on the widespread corruption at City Hall - the report sheets were soon slid into a pale-brown folder.
"It might take a while, so…" he said while his hand went down to open one of the desk's drawers. Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of liquor soon saw the light of day. "How about a dram?"
"And here I thought you'd gone all pious on me!" Sally said with a wide grin.
-*-*-*-
It only took the highly efficient - but unfortunately named - Mrs. Fecklund less than fifteen minutes to return to the office with a folder containing all the information the newspaper had on the man who called himself Dimitris Stefanidou.
While Smithy worked on something else, Sally buried her nose in the reams of text to get the most out of the files in the brief time she would have access to them. Her pencil raced across the pages of her notepad adding various nuggets and tidbits that were, or would be, vital to the case. Each additional sheet of the collected data that she went through added another color to the painting - there were one or two positive notes, but most were shocking-red or sinister-black.
All done, she tapped the sheets, clippings and grainy photos into an orderly stack that was soon inserted into the folder the collection had come in. She rubbed her eyes several times before she flipped her notepad back half a dozen pages in order to give everything she had written a once-over from the top.
A long sigh escaped her when she finished reading the depressing news.
"That bad?" Smithy said, leaning back on his chair. When he didn't get much of an answer, he cracked his knuckles and reached for the bottle of dram again.
Another sigh escaped Sally before she took the new glass of dram and threw it down in one gulp. "Bad doesn't begin to describe it, Smithy. And now I have to find a way to break it to my client without tearing her heart to shreds. Dammit!"
"Well, let me hear it from the top down. I used to be a pretty damn fine beat cop, ya know. I might be able to add my two cents' worth."
"All right," Sally said and flipped the pages once more to start at the beginning. "Dimitris Stefanidou. Also known to use several other Greek names. Born in Thessaloniki in nineteen-fourteen. Let's start with some positive news. Stefanidou didn't lie about everything… only most of it. He really is a widower. Lost his first wife in 'forty-one in a Kraut attack on a small village. Note that I said first wife. His second wife is alive and well and living in Blackwater."
"Of all the places she could stay… why Blackwater?!" Smithy said and let out a booming laugh.
"No idea. Maybe she likes the view? Anyway, they escaped Greece in 'forty-three, emigrated to our shores and got married in 'forty-four. In Port Lancaster, apparently. They were divorced eight months later," Sally continued, looking at her notes. "Local scuttlebutt had it he was only shootin' blanks so the wifey left him for someone with a greater… ah, virility. He fell behind on the alimony almost at once so he borrowed some money from a Greek syndicate to keep up while his commodities business got underway. Then he borrowed a little more, and so on and so forth. Get the picture?"
"Yeah. An all-too familiar tale. The syndicate ends up owning him."
"That's exactly what happened here. And then he upped stakes and ran to Mooresburg City to get away from his ex-wife and his new friends. Once he had settled down here, he re-invented himself as a luxury lothario specializing in bored trophy wives of the upper class," Sally continued, flipping the page. "Based on the interviews with the victims, it appears his scheme is simple but effective. He showers them in attention and sweet nothings until they succumb to his manly charms. Once the ladies have parted their legs for him, he tells them a sob-story about his sick mother and that he needs some money to pay for an operation, or whatever. The end result is that he always gets the money he asks for. He doesn't have to be violent or even threatening. The intense guilt and the fear of scandalizing their important husbands make the women pay. Every. Single. Time."
"Jeebus, Sally! That's a class act, all right…"
Sally let out a dark grunt as thoughts of Marilyn Parker being trapped in Stefanidou's web entered her mind. "Yeah. A regular Prince Charming. Once he has the money, he's out of there faster than Popeye the Sailor. He assumes a new identity for each scam. Always as a Greek, though. And then… enter my client. What Stefanidou didn't know was the special arrangement my client had with her husband. My guess is that she couldn't or wouldn't pay him… or simply didn't fall for the sob-story… so he had to come up with a plan B that involved extortion. That didn't work either. Now, he's in a world of hurt because the little guy he used as a go-between ended up gettin' bumped off by a wolf. One in the head and one in the throat. You know what that means."
"Yep. That's a 'keep quiet or else' warning to everyone who knew him. Who was that?"
"Johan 'Bull-Nose' Pravka. Nobody special, just your average Joe. He'll never get a flashy headstone… hell, he'll never get an obituary in the Gazette or anywhere else, for that matter."
Grunting, Sally slapped the notepad against her palm before she stuck it into her pocket.
Smithy leaned back on the chair. He sat in silence for a while before he spoke: "But who pastured the go-between? The Greek syndicate or someone else?"
"Can't say, but it was definitely a city wolf. Collar up to here, hat down to there, see?" Sally said, gesturing to illustrate her words. "I had him dead-aim, but I didn't want to jump into a swap meet with hundreds of onlookers lining the shootin' gallery."
"Mmmm."
Sighing, Sally got up from the chair and donned her trench coat. "Introducing a professional to the city jungle will only muddy the waters. I got enough problems as it is… Don Scardamaglia, Vittorio Graziano and Angelo Corrado's noses are still bent way the hell out of shape after the deal with the Count. And then there's Ice-Pick McGarrigle and his dockside crew who just hate my guts for whatever reason. Well, I guess they're still sore because I drilled several of their guys back in September. At least my client has left the city. That would be one mess too many."
"Where do you go from here, then?" Smithy said, getting up as well so he could extend his hand.
Once the handshake had been carried out, Sally put on her fedora and ran an index finger across the shade to make sure it sat just right. "Lemme see, Smithy. I need to work out a battle plan that'll flush out the lothario and the unknown wolf, so… I'm gonna go straight to a bar. I always think best with Scotch in my gut, a Royal Flush on my hand, a cee-gar between my champers and a doll on my lap. Hi de ho, bub, and thanks for the dram. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, yeah?"
"Don't worry. I learned my lesson the first time," Smithy said before he let out a booming belly-laugh that had a surprising undertone of embarrassment.
-*-*-*-
The hands of time seemed to move triple-quick. What felt like an hour and a half at the most to Sally was in fact closer to four and a half hours spent in the delightful company of poker players, zooming revellers and agile, nubile showgirls.
After her mood had taken a dip at the prospects of informing Marilyn Parker of her new beau's sinister side, she had flagged down a taxi cab and gone straight to one of the spots in Mooresburg City that would almost always cheer her up: a very special bar located on Twelfth Street a mere city block away from the Grand Central Station - Cain's Candy.
Strictly a members-only establishment, Cain's Candy aimed to emulate the Speakeasies of the Prohibition era by being completely incognito. Those fortunate enough to know of its existence needed to enter the hallowed grounds through a nondescript alley, ride six storeys up on a rickety freight elevator and finally go through a reinforced door equipped with a gun slit, a peep hole and a six-foot-eight chief bouncer.
Once inside, the guests would come under tight scrutiny by the bouncer's beefy guards while their membership status was verified - only then would they be allowed access to the inner sanctum.
Further similarities to the Speakeasies of yore could be found in the far fewer inhibitions displayed by the patrons compared to regular bars and nightclubs. In fact, for many of them, it wasn't as much in-hibitions as ex-hibitions as the waiters were a heady mix of women in men's clothing, men in women's clothing and some in very little clothing altogether.
The bar's piece de resistance was an enamelled bathtub filled with either champagne or home-blended punch depending on the day of the week. Since it was Saturday, the bath water of choice was prime quality bubbly.
On weekdays, one of the bar's most popular party games was to stick straws into the bathtub and have the participants suck up as much punch as possible while a referee made a thirty-second countdown. Saturdays saw a slightly classier version of the game where the week's champions got to do it all over again, only with fine champagne that always left everyone belching their heads off due to the high level of carbonation in the drink - and every belch, burp and hiccup was greeted with loud fanfares by the regular patrons.
---
Sally's toothy grin and slightly hazy look proved she'd had her fair share of Scotch, poker, cigars and attention from the girls who were all happy to see her. Her necktie had disappeared at some point during the proceedings, but she had been compensated for the loss by one of the dancers who had showed her a few new moves. All in all, Sally had no cause for complaint.
As the afternoon grew late, someone dragged out a radio and tuned it to the live broadcast of the boxing matches over at the Orchid Gardens. Most of the lesser undercard match-ups were already over and done with, but a ten-round light-heavyweight contest was still in progress - the enthusiastic journalist reporting live from ringside kept a running score of the hits and misses.
Many of the patrons of Cain's Candy huddled around the radio to follow the championship bout, but Sally wasn't one of them. Instead, she had withdrawn to a private booth in the back of the bar to gather her thoughts on how to proceed with Marilyn's case. A tall glass featuring a Bourbon-and-Coke mixer had been brought to the table by one of the waiters, but Sally had barely looked at it as she was too busy pouring over the contents of her notepad.
She had already smoked all of the handful of complimentary king-sized cigarettes she had been given by one of the tobacco girls when she had arrived, so a Serrano's Special Blend dangled from the corner of her mouth. The pale-gray smoke wafted past her hazel eyes that had traded their earlier haziness for the characteristic steely edge they always got whenever she put her head down to break through yet another brick wall.
A round of cheers and boos rose from the people huddled around the radio as the reigning light-heavyweight champion served his challenger an uppercut sandwich for the ages. The patrons soon counted along with the match referee whose voice could be heard in the background of the radio broadcast. When the challenger lost the count-out and was thus deemed unfit to continue, another round of cheers and boos broke out in Cain's Candy as well as over at the Orchid Gardens. The enthusiastic reporter listed the winning pugilist's many accomplishments before he began setting the stage for the main event, i.e. the twelve-round World Heavyweight match-up that would begin at eight.
Sally briefly studied the people gathered near the radio. None of them looked like someone who would enjoy watching men punch the stuffing out of each other in real life, but everyone seemed smitten with the atmosphere created by the live broadcast.
After taking the first swig of the tall drink, she inhaled a deep puff of the cigarette and returned to her notepad. A moment later, someone appearing at the entrance to the private booth caused her to look up once more.
Her guest proved to be a man in his early twenties who wore golden earrings, a sparkly necklace and a highly elegant, deep-burgundy robe that featured golden highlights across the waistbelt and along the elbow-length sleeves. A triple-layer, diamond-studded tiara graced his short, medium-brown hair.
Although it was hidden by the exquisite fabric, a five-inch long, shrapnel-shaped scar on the fleshy part of the young man's upper-right chest was the lasting memento of the years spent wearing olive-green and marching boots rather than burgundy velvet and high heels. He had lost some of the use of his right arm when the pectoral and shoulder muscles had been severed by a German hand grenade detonating right next to the Jeep he had been riding in, but the disability was hardly noticeable.
"Hi, Sally," the young man said with a cautious smile. "I was wondering if you had a moment?"
Sally grinned at her friend before she closed the notepad and stuck it into a breast pocket. After scooting to her left, she patted the plush seat next to her. "Always, Richard. And I got room, too. C'mon, rest your long gams here next to ol' Sally. You're lookin' mighty fine tonight."
"Thank you. It's my favorite gown," Richard Griffith said as he pulled up the robe's lower hem to be able to slide onto the booth.
"I'll bet. So… what gives?"
Smiling, Richard leaned in to give Sally a tiny bump with his good shoulder. "I just wanted to tell you the good news. I got the job at the bank!"
"Yeah, that is great news, pal! Told ya it'd all work out, see?"
Richard nodded twice before he broke out in a snicker. "You did, but I had my doubts. Monday, November third will be my first day there. I'll enroll in an internal trainee course to begin with. I'll start in the securities repository and then work my way around the various departments."
Sally leaned to the side to do a quick top-to-toe check of her friend. "I guess that's a suit-and-tie gig, eh?"
"It is. I've already bought three suits from the Marquandt Brothers over on Seventy-second Street. One pale-gray, one black and one navy-blue. They're the bank's company colors, so… the Marquandts are excellent tailors. Are you familiar with them?"
"Oh, sure! I buy all my duds there, bub!" Sally said with a grin as she hooked her thumbs into her far more basic garments. Her cigarette had worked itself down to the ring so she stubbed it out in the ashtray - then she took a long swig of the Bourbon-and-Coke.
Another round of cheers rose from the people at the radio - the reporter had just made it public that the World Heavyweight Champion was on his way to the ring for a pre-fight interview. Richard cast a casual glance at the people outside the private booth before he turned back to Sally. "How about you? Working hard or hardly working?"
The grin briefly froze on Sally's face. "The former wishin' it was the latter," she said, sloshing the dark-brown drink around the tall glass. "A dear, old friend of mine has been trapped in a spider's web of treachery and deceit. Blackmail. Murder. Yeah. The big, fat, poisonous spider has already bitten her so now we're racin' to find a cure."
"Ew. Hate spiders," Richard said with a shiver.
A dark grunt left Sally before she drained the tall drink. "Me too. Especially of the two-legged kind." The empty glass was soon put on the table with a hard Thump!
An awkward silence arose between Sally and Richard, but it only lasted for a few seconds - then another young man popped his head around the corner of the booth to wink at the robe-wearing Richard. Returning the wink, Richard scooted off the plush seat. "That's my cue. In any case… I wish you all the best, Sally. Please stay safe."
"Will do, pal. Thanks. And good luck with your new job, eh?"
Once Sally found herself alone once more, she glanced at her wristwatch - it read five to eight, PM - and then at the empty glass. The perpetual state of non-stop partying, role-playing and other forms of decadent and high-strung activities at Cain's Candy suddenly turned intrusive.
Needing a hefty dose of peace and quiet to offset all the madness of the past few hours, she scooted off the bench and moved into the main room. It seemed that a literal masquerade was in full swing as the party-clad people on the central dance floor all wore half-masks while they mingled with each other.
Sally had tried being part of the masquerade once just so she could say she had done it, but she was far too much of a traditionalist to get any enjoyment out of the concept of fully free and uninhibited sex among a group of people she didn't know and would never see again. Grunting, she moved over to the checkroom to get her coat and her hat instead - it was high time to get back to work.
---
Six storeys below the latter-day Speakeasy, Sally moved the elaborate doors of the freight elevator aside so she could step into the nondescript alley. The first thing she did was to light a cigarette and draw a deep puff. The music and constant partying of the past several hours continued to ring in her ears as she strolled through the alley en route to Twelfth Street. Once there, she turned north and simply fell into the flow of pedestrians.
Her mission was to get to a telephone booth - she needed to break the bad news to Marilyn somehow, and preferably before the lady left for Switzerland so no false hopes would be harbored during the vacation.
---
The first booth she came across had been vandalized causing her to utter a few choice words before moving onto the next one. Her plans changed when she arrived at the large square in front of the Grand Central Station. After crossing over the lanes at the bus terminal and those reserved for the multitude of waiting taxi cabs, she entered the station itself and made a beeline for the long row of booths that had been put up next to the telegraph office.
In luck for a change, she was able to enter the telephone booth without needing to wait for anyone. The sliding door was soon closed so she could have some privacy for what would undoubtedly be a tearful conversation - at least on Marilyn's part.
"Hello, operator?" she said after sliding several dimes down the slot, "I need to get in touch with Astoria six-eight-seven-eight, please. Yeah, I know they're vetting all incoming calls. Thanks."
A few clicks and hisses were heard while the telephone operator carried out the connection. Soon, a male voice was heard in Sally's ear. "Hiya. Sally Swackhamer, P.I. here. I've called before- yeah, exactly. I need to talk to Missus Parker. It's urgent. I have important information- she did what?!"
The telephone booth was equipped with a small seat that Sally had used, but the news that Mrs. Parker and a friend, a Mr. Stefanidou, had driven to a restaurant in the city to mark their last evening in town before leaving on their shared vacation made her jump up and stand ramrod-straight.
"Oh, for cryin' out loud! Which restaurant? She didn't say? In which part of town? She didn't say that either?! Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, bub, what the hell kind of baloney security gig are you dumb monkey nuts runnin' out there? Your client just left with the louse! This can't get any worse!"
Several mumbled questions came back through the connection, but Sally had no time for them: "Not now, bub. I'll be in touch," she said, slamming the receiver onto the telephone. Only the first dime had been used, but she was in such a hurry to leave the booth that she had no time to fish the second one out of the small cup.
Several frantic steps later, she came to a dead stop and threw her arms out wide. A long groan escaped her at the potential implications of Marilyn's dinner arrangement with the Greek lothario slash grifter - that her actions caused her to being gawked at by a wide variety of passengers and porters mattered little to her.
The worst of the fiery eruption slowly died down which left her deflated, frustrated and above all sublimely annoyed. Instead of moaning about things out of her control, she decided to get her hands back on the proverbial steering wheel. To do that, she spun around on her heel and stomped back to the telephone booth and the directory she had seen there.
"Let me see… restaurants in Mooresburg City," she mumbled to herself as she flicked through the hefty tome. Her steely determination suffered a severe dent when her index finger ran down no less than eight densely-written columns of cafes, diners, restaurants, cafeterias, soup kitchens, hole-in-the-wall supper joints and other types of eating establishments. "Oh, rats…" she continued in the same kind of mumble.
Bumping down onto the small seat in the corner of the booth, she could do nothing but sit there and stare for nearly a minute. When she finally got up, she left the booth and strode over the station hall's smooth floor en route to the line of vacant taxi cabs out front.
She had barely made it outside before yet another groan left her throat. It seemed that one of the major trains had just arrived as scores of people battled each other to claim one of the surprisingly low number of taxi cabs parked in the two lanes - more than one of those battles were well on the way to becoming proper fisticuffs.
"Dammit, that does it!" Sally growled, slapping her fedora against her thigh. "I need to get my damn Flivver repaired! Or buy a new one! Perhaps I should take a page from the Greek loverboy's playbook and find myself a merry widow somewhere… for cryin' out loud!"
-*-*-*-
Back home on Eighty-seventh Street.
After waiting for ages for a vacant cab, not to mention being forced to listen to a dreary lecture by a dry-stick cabbie when she finally managed to flag one down - the fellow's sole topic had been the relative merits of dairy products - Sally had barely set foot in the hallway leading to her office when she could hear the shrill ringing of her telephone. Another long groan escaped her as she picked up the pace and ran along the corridor to get to the office door.
She had restocked a little on her way back, so once she reached the door with the frosted pane that carried her name, she had to put down a brown paper bag containing a bottle of 4-Leaf Clover Irish Whiskey and a 12-pack carton of Serrano's Special Blend cigarettes in order to get to her keys.
Haste Makes Waste - the old saying was confirmed for the umpteenth time when she dropped her keys onto the linoleum floor. Cursing a blue streak while being thankful it wasn't the Irish whiskey, she finally got the door unlocked. The telephone kept ringing as she stormed inside and hurried over to her desk. Yanking the receiver off the hook, she uttered a breathless: "This is Sal-"
'Oh, thank God! You have to help me! We were attacked! They took Dimitris!'
"Wha- who… Marilyn? Marilyn, is that-"
'Two masked men j- jumped us when we came out of the restaurant! They threw Dimitris into the back of a van! Oh God, they were so mean to him… they shoved him around and punched him in the stomach!'
Scrambling for her notepad, Sally needed to pat all her pockets before she found it - typically for how her late afternoon and early evening had gone, she needed to swap hands on the receiver several times until she was able to put the notepad onto the desk. "Marilyn, you need to calm down! Please! And slow down, too, 'cos I can't keep up! Okay, take it from the top," she said, reaching for a good specimen in a tray of pencils that she kept on her desk.
'It happened not ten minutes ago! Dimitris and I had finished eating at a seafood restaurant up on the waterfront promenade when two masked men jumped out of the shadows and attacked us!' Marilyn said, speaking at such breakneck speed the words stumbled over each other. 'Thank God I wasn't hurt, but poor, poor Dimitris was punched in the stomach several times and thrown into the back of a van!'
"All right," Sally said, scribbling like crazy to get everything committed to paper. "Have you called the flatfeet yet? The police?"
'No! And I can't because one of the masked men gave me a note that… that… wait, let me read it aloud…'
The explosive tension blasting through Sally's system joined forces with the glowing-hot radiator on the wall and the alcohol in her gut to create a constant hot flash that threatened to peel her skin clean off.
A curtain of beads developed on her forehead, but she was so busy taking notes she couldn't spare the time needed to crawl out of her trench coat and the sports blazer she wore underneath it. "I'm ready to write it down!" she said, flipping the page and holding the tip of the pencil ready.
'I quote 'No harm will come to your husband-' …that's actually what it says, Sally… perhaps they didn't know that… that… we… that I'm married to-'
"Marilyn… Marilyn, just the facts. Please!"
'Oh, you're right… God, I'm in such a state right now. Let me start over. No harm will come to your husband if you put a suitcase containing ten thousand dollars in small bills by the side entrance of the Sorenson-Fisk Ice Production Facility at quay berth thirty-six in the industrial port tomorrow, Sunday, at eleven AM. If you call the cops, you'll get your husband back in little pieces. Unquote. Oh God, Sally… I'm so scared… I… I need to call Clarence and tell him everything. I don't have ten thousand dollars!'
"Don't call him yet, Marilyn! Please! Where are you right now? I'll be there as soon as I possibly can. That's a promise! We have a ton of things to discuss." As Sally spoke, she eyed the metal filing cabinet where she kept the most powerful firearm she had at her disposal: a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun known as a Lupara.
'I'm… I'm still at the seafood restaurant. It's called… oh… Marcello's. It's directly on the waterfront promenade. Do you know where that is?'
"The promenade, sure, but not the fish joint itself. Never mind. I'll find it," Sally said, closing the notepad and shoving it into her coat pocket. "Marilyn, make sure you stay close to other people. If those palookas come back for a second bite of the cherry, they might think twice about it if there's a bunch of witnesses, see? Stay low and try not to panic too much. I'll be there as soon as I can."
'O- okay… please hurry, Sally… I'm so scared…'
"I know you are. I'll hurry. That's a promise. I'll be there before you know it."
Marilyn was too shaken up to say goodbye, so all that happened once their conversation came to an end was that the connection simply went dead. Sally quickly whipped off her trench coat, the blazer jacket and the single holster. Within moments, she had donned her twin holsters and had transferred the Browning Hi-Power to the other harness - it's identical brother was soon attached under her other arm.
Hurrying over to the filing cabinets, she grabbed all the spare magazines she had - six of which were inserted into the leather straps on the actual holsters while the final three were put on her desk to be shoved into her coat pockets later on.
Only then did she notice that she had never had time to close the door or even carry her brand new bottle of Irish whiskey and the carton of cigarettes inside. A long sigh escaped her as she moved over to the door to accomplish the otherwise simple tasks.
Back at the filing cabinet, she reached into the one labeled 'L' and took out the lethal Lupara that had originally been used against her by a junior mobster out to impress his bosses - she had claimed it as spoils of war after prying it from his dead fingers.
Sawed-off at both ends so it could be carried under a coat without anyone suspecting a thing before it was too late, the barrels of the genuine Sicilian shotgun only extended an inch past the wooden handgrip present on its underside. At the other end, its regular full-length stock had been reshaped into a pistol-grip.
Sally not only furrowed her brow but clenched her lips as she studied the fierce weapon. The waterfront promenade was familiar to her, but the warehouse where Dimitris Stefanidou was allegedly held hostage was virgin territory.
In short, she had no idea of the facility's basic layout, no idea of the number of opponents she would face, and no idea of their willingness to fight back once she showed up. Well, except that she had a very strong hunch that the pro trigger man from the Johan Pravka killing would make an unwelcome return to her gunsights sooner rather than later.
Although the Lupara's range was limited - shooting at a target further away than twenty-five feet was nothing more than wishful thinking - the blast radius would guarantee plenty of bloody nastiness anywhere within the spread of buckshot. The shotgun's greatest problem was its almost non-existent accuracy of fire. A handgun, a rifle or even a submachine gun like the Thompson or the M3 Grease Gun could deliver a concentrated burst of firepower at a single, small, well-defined target, but the Lupara's pellets would simply strike indiscriminately at anything in their path once the triggers had been pulled.
"No, not this time," she said as she put the Lupara back into the filing cabinet. Instead, she reached into another drawer to take a nimble FN Herstal .32 pistol, two spare magazines and finally the small holster the weapon fit into - the latter was soon strapped onto her right ankle so she had a concealed backup to her Hi-Powers. Once she had been transformed into a walking armory worthy of the US Army post out at Fort Cortina, she returned to her desk and the telephone.
"Hello, operator," she said into the receiver, "I need Oakwood five-two-three-five, please. It's urgent."
While she waited for the connection to be established, she hurried around the desk and bumped down on her swivel-chair. The receiver was briefly pinned down between her chin and her shoulder so she could have her hands free to tear off the cover of the carton of cigarettes, but she had barely started the process when the familiar, silky-smooth timbre of her secretary, close confidante and all-round best gal-pal Victoria 'Vicky' Prince spoke in her ear.
'Good evening. To whom am I speaking, please?'
"Hiya, toots!" Sally said, pushing the unopened carton aside. "It's me, Sally. Listen, I'm in a jam here. A real bad jam, see, and I need some wheels."
'Oh-'
"Are you still on friendly terms with your neighbor? Please say yes 'cos I need to borrow his Plymouth for the rest of the evening. Maybe part of the night, too. Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, doll, yours truly got herself tangled up in some nasty bizz here-"
'What else is new…'
"Yeah, ain't that the truth. False identities, extortion, kidnapping, murder, the works. Just another average Saturday evening in the big, bad city, yeah? But the wheels, toots? How about the wheels?"
'I'll ask him at once. And my name is Vicky!'
"I know," Sally said with a grin. As the connection fell quiet, she finally had time to tear the cardboard cover off the cigarettes. The first pack had soon been liberated, and from there, it was only a matter of skills and effort before the first cigarette was stuck between her lips and lit with the striking of a match.
Muffled sounds filtering through the receiver heralded the return of Vicky a short minute after she had left. 'Hello?'
"Still here, sugar."
'My neighbor says it's all right to borrow his car. You only need to fill it up when you're done.'
"That's a mighty fine deal, toots! I'll be coming 'round the mountain in ten minutes or so. Give the old gent a hug an' a kiss from me, eh?"
'Sally Swackhamer, I will do nothing of the kind!'
Chuckling at her friend's insulted tones, Sally moved the receiver away from her ear to protect all the sensitive bits inside. "Jeebus almighty, doll… I didn't even need the phone to hear ya! Okay. I'll be over in a flash- no, wait!"
'Now what? Do you want me to make you some coffee and finger food as well?'
Sally's earlier chuckles grew into a proper belly laugh at the offer. "Gee whiz, toots, that's a swell suggestion! You certainly know how to butter an ol' gumshoe! But no. Would you happen to have an old suitcase or large bag that you don't need anymore? There's a pretty fat chance it'll get ruined-"
'What in the world? Well… yes. Yes, I have an old travel suitcase I've wanted to get rid of for a while-'
"That'll work a treat, doll! Please have it ready when I get there. Okay? Talk to you real soon!"
'Well, I- Sally Swackhamer, will you never learn? My name is-'
"Bye, sugar!"
With no time to listen to Vicky's closing arguments, Sally threw the receiver onto the hook, knocked off the tip of ash that had formed on the cigarette, jumped up from the swivel-chair and made a beeline for the hallstand where her blazer, trench coat and fedora awaited her latest dramatic mission.
-*-*-*-
Sally's sense of timing was as finely honed as ever: she had predicted it would take her roughly ten minutes to jog the three city blocks from her detective agency's base on Eighty-seventh Street to Eighty-fourth Street where Victoria 'Vicky' Prince lived in a seven-story brownstone apartment building - it ended up taking her nine minutes and forty-eight seconds. That she had to bend over and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath once she got there was just an unfortunate side-effect.
Vicky Prince waited for Sally at the stoop. The tall, graceful lady - one shouldn't make inquiries about a lady's age, but she was twenty-eight - wore sensible shoes and a pair of serviceable dark-gray, wide-legged slacks that featured sharp creases. A broad-shouldered suit jacket matching the shade of the slacks came to just above her waist. Underneath it, she wore a white angora sweater that was anything but serviceable.
Her auburn hair was held in a neat ponytail that looked as if she had created it for the occasion. A chic pillbox hat sat low over her left eye just like the fashion magazines suggested. The lenses of the ungainly nut-brown frame perched on her regal nose amplified the fact that her pale-blue eyes were wide in utter confusion.
A battered, old travel suitcase stood next to her on the bottom step - the many dents and scrapes on the lid proved it had seen quite a bit of the United States in its career.
"Hiya, sugar!" Sally said once she had regained enough breath to do so. Reaching up, she took off her fedora to wipe her damp brow on her sleeve. "My, my… you sure are lookin' swell tonight. A glamorous dame worth a fortune! Why, if I wasn't in such a damn hurry, I'd hold ya to that offer of coffee and finger food. Or do you have a hot date upstairs?"
"I most certainly do not," Vicky said, adjusting her glasses. "I was working on my canvas embroidery and listening to the live broadcast from the Excelsior Club when you called. I'd like to know what you've fallen into this time, actually."
Sobering, Sally plonked her hat back onto her blond locks. "It's a sorry tale of tragedy, deceit and an endless line of broken hearts. Listen, doll, you know how much I'd love to stay and chat with you all night, but I'm in a real hurry, see? I need to get out to the waterfront promenade before the fine mess becomes even messier."
"And that's when things usually go off the rails for you. Well, I'm coming along," Vicky said, grabbing the old suitcase and setting off in an insistent stride - her fast action to get to her neighbor's black, 1946 Plymouth Special DeLuxe left no time for Sally to voice any kind of complaint.
---
Two minutes later, Sally turned the large steering wheel left to force the sedan away from the curb and into the sparse flow of traffic on Eighty-fourth Street. When the exquisite scent of her bench-mate's high-class perfume reached her nostrils, she broke out in a wide grin. "Oh, this deal keeps gettin' better! You're wearing Midnight Starlite, aintcha? You sure know how to spoil an ol' gumshoe rotten!"
"Thank you. You smell like a distillery," Vicky replied in a droll voice.
Sally pretended to look insulted, but she couldn't hold the expression long. "Gee, and there I thought I smelled of roses! Well, most of my afternoon was spent at Cain's Candy. I needed space to think. I'm safe to drive, though. I only had half a bottle of booze or so."
Vicky shot Sally a long look before she broke out in a shrug. "So… tell me about the case and why you're in such a hurry?"
While the question was still being posed, Sally slammed her gumshoe down onto the accelerator to clear a slowpoke hogging the northbound lane of the two-lane street. This brought her over into the path of the oncoming traffic, but it was all in a day's work for her and barely rated a mention - Vicky, however, hissed and put her hands on the Plymouth's dashboard as if it would stop her in case of a head-on collision.
"Well, it's like this, see," Sally said as she took the corner onto Cooper Street on two wheels. "Last night, an old flame came by the office with some urgent bizz-"
An even droller "I'll bet," escaped Vicky before Sally could continue.
"Not like that, sugar. She had been cornered by a louse who informed her that if she didn't cough up five grand, a buncha photos of her and a slick loverboy she wasn't married to would be sent to the scribblers."
"Oh… I'm sorry. Go on."
Sally took the opportunity to hang a sharp left onto the Sixth Avenue that would steer them clear of not only downtown itself, but the streets around the Orchid Gardens that were sure to be overcrowded following the conclusion of the huge boxing extravaganza.
"I sorta knew the louse from the description my old flame gave-"
"Does she have a name?"
"Why, she certainly does, toots!" Sally said with a grin as she had the Plymouth Special DeLuxe roaring north on the wide, four-lane Avenue. "Marilyn Parker. Yep, she's married to Judge Clarence Parker who's pegged to be on the Supreme Court… or so the headlines say."
"Sally Swackhamer, how in the world did someone like you get involved with someone like that? It doesn't sound as if you'd be traveling in the same circles!"
Vicky's voice had held a solid amount of sarcasm without going overboard - regardless of the intonation, it made Sally laugh out loud. "Weeeellll… I guess some ladies just find me ir-re-sis-table!" the P.I. said with a grin so wide that it reached from ear to ear. Another chuckle escaped her off the outraged look in Vicky's eyes. "Anyway, I got the train rolling by looking for the-"
Sally cut herself off when a delivery van made an unexpected lane-change directly in front of the speeding sedan - the large steering wheel was hurriedly yanked to the right to steer clear of the inattentive driver. As they raced past, she roared "Ya dumb schmuck!" at the van, but given the fact she had the driver's side window rolled up, the words didn't travel very far.
Hissing, Vicky reached for the dashboard all over again. The Plymouth's hard turns made her slide to her left across the bench seat, bump into Sally, slide back to the right and finish off by bumping into the door. Once the heavy car had settled down, she pulled herself back to the proper spot on the bench seat while rubbing the elbow that had made contact with the hard door. "This wasn't my best-ever idea," she croaked as stared through the windscreen at the myriad of red brake lights ahead of them.
"Aw, I'm glad you came, doll. I kinda like havin' you around. You calm me down!" Sally said, slamming her shoe onto the gas pedal to clear a line of cars waiting at the traffic lights. "Back to the details. I eventually found the louse, a real bruiser by the name of Johan The Bull-Nose Pravka, see? Well, I persuaded him to sell me the photos for four or five C-notes."
"So how did that turn out? I'm guessing something happened and you didn't get the photos?"
Sally shrugged. "No, I got them, all right… but something did happen. I saved forkin' out the moolah 'cos I took the envelope with the photos off his corpse. See-"
"Sally!"
"I didn't plug him, sugar! Honest! No, it was some kind of pro gun-toter. A stone cold wolf who didn't even bat an eyelid at gunning down Pravka in broad daylight and in front of at least fifty witnesses. Yeah… a real piece of work, that fella."
Vicky fell quiet so she could digest the story so far - her hands were kept firmly on the dashboard as the Plymouth continued to roar through the streets and past the evening traffic.
The buildings they raced past grew less extravagant as they left behind the newer boroughs of Mooresburg City to enter the older neighborhoods and then the first of the suburbs. Soon, the majority of houses lining the northern-most stretch of Sixth Avenue were two-story buildings that typically had a shop on the ground floor and the owner's home upstairs.
Traffic had grown scarce, but Sally actually let off the gas and adhered to the speed limit instead of taking advantage of the empty streets to blast ahead even faster. The reason for her unexpected course of action was soon revealed as they drove past several police patrol units who were just waiting for someone to speed past so they could send the motorcycles after them.
---
A somber silence filled the Plymouth for a couple of minutes while Vicky mulled over what she had learned so far. After adjusting her spectacles, she turned to shoot Sally a sideways look. "That's a terrible case. How you can live and work among people like that, I'll never know. So why all this urgency now, then?"
Sally checked the rear-view mirror a couple of times before she spoke: "Marilyn told me she'd go on a vacation abroad to let the storm blow over, see? Only… she wanted to celebrate the last night in town in style. She and the loverboy went to a seafood restaurant up at the waterfront. Yeah? And then Marilyn called me a short while ago. The poor gal was almost hysterical 'cos loverboy got himself kidnapped-"
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, yeah. The Joes passed him a gut-twister and threw him into a panel van. And get this, they want ten grand for his release. The lettuce is to be delivered in a suitcase."
"Well, that answers one question I had," Vicky said, turning to cast an eye on her battered, old suitcase that she had stuffed in behind the front seats when they took off.
"Yeah, but Marilyn doesn't have access to that kinda dough. She was close to telling hubby Clarence about the whole shebang. I told her not to. Then I called you… and now we're here goin' there."
Vicky opened her mouth to make further inquiries, but closed it at once. The comedy routine was repeated several times before she scratched her neck. "But we don't have ten thousand dollars either! You know those criminal elements… they won't hesitate hurting or killing their victim. By tricking them, you risk sealing his fate-"
Shaking her head, Sally let out a dark grunt that cut Vicky off mid-stream. "I visited my old pal Smithy at the Gazette earlier today. I was given access to all the information they had on Mista Loverboy. Let me tell ya something, doll, that sure wasn't family-friendly reading. What he is, is a grifter. A real slimy snake who woos and beds bored or frustrated ladies from the upper echelons of society. Once he's had 'em on their backs, or however they prefer to do it, he asks 'em for money. Plenty of money. They always cough up 'cos of the shame."
"What a… a… a son of… what a crook!" Vicky said, thumping her fist onto the Plymouth's dashboard.
"For a moment there, I thought you were gonna use a dirty word, sugar!" Sally said and let out a dark chuckle.
Huffing, Vicky had to adjust her spectacles several times to get her indignation to fit behind the frame. "I see what you're getting at. He staged the kidnapping himself to steal ten thousand dollars from your old friend."
"That's my thinking," Sally said, once more checking the rear-view mirror to see if they had picked up a tail in the shape of a squad car or a police motorcycle. When the street behind them proved clear, she continued: "But what kinda muddies the water is the stone cold killer who bumped off Pravka. A real city wolf if ever I saw one. I got no clue where he fits in. And why not, doll? 'Cos Mista Loverboy is actually on the lam from a Greek syndicate that he swindled out of a pile of greenery a few years back. So I guess there's a chance the kidnapping is genuine."
"You don't suppose the killer and… wait, what's the loverboy's real name?"
"He calls himself Dimitris Stefanidou on this particular sham. He's used several aliases over the years. Can't tell ya his original name 'cos not even the Gazette had access to that. A Greek immigrant. He made his way over here four years ago, see."
"All right. You don't suppose the two could be one and the same, do you? I mean this Dimitris fellow and the man you called the city wolf?"
Sally briefly fell quiet before she let out a grunt. "Ya know, toots, that's a very good point. The thought never even crossed my mind. I guess there's some logic to it. I know what Stefanidou looks like, but only from the photos they used for the original attempt at blackmailing my friend. He was sitting down in all of them so I don't know his height and build. I was, oh, thirty feet away from the trigger man when Pravka bought the farm. He had his hat down low and his collar way up high… ya know, there's a chance it could be the same fella, actually. Huh. How about that?"
"Which means we have to be even more careful-"
"Not 'we,' sugar. Me," Sally said, tapping an index finger against her trench coat. "There's no way in hell you're going to war with me. We tried that back at the railroad yard, remember? Not gonna happen again. End of discussion."
"Just for the record, that wasn't what I was alluding to."
"No?"
Vicky reached across the bench seat to put a steady hand on Sally's elbow. "No. I meant that if you manage to rescue Stefanidou, we need to be on our toes around him. I can't imagine he'd want to leave any loose threads."
Sally nodded several times before she reached up to squeeze her friend's hand - the squeeze was soon reciprocated. "That's why I'm a grunt and you're the empress, doll. You use your dynamite brains to think ahead. I just react to whatever-the-hay the palookas throw at me at any given moment in time. See?"
"I see, all right," Vicky said with a chuckle. As she looked ahead, she pointed out of the windscreen. "I also see the waterfront promenade. When we find your friend, I'll do the comforting. I'll bet you don't have a clue what to say to a lady in such a desperate situation."
An embarrassed guffaw burst out of Sally - then she leaned her head back and released a resounding belly laugh at the undeniable truth of the statement.
-*-*-*-
Late October was a dead period for the restaurants, the night clubs and the various other establishments and tourist attractions that had set up shop along the waterfront promenade. Since the halcyon days of the mid-1920s - i.e. post-Great War but pre-'29 stock market crash - where the promenade came to be known as the Naughty Mile due to its raucous atmosphere, the high-water marks had always come on the hot summer nights where seemingly half of Mooresburg City would gather at the waterfront to eat, drink and be merry.
The famed Rouge et Noir Gentleman's Club that counted Sally Swackhamer among its esteemed members had closed down for the entirety of the winter months. Madame Beauchamps's renowned dancing troupe had relocated to one of the clubs near the city center, and the croupiers and bartenders had all found gainful employment elsewhere.
Holding various events at Halloween had grown in popularity over the past couple of years, but the holiday couldn't be stretched much further than a weekend which simply didn't prove profitable enough for most of the owners and proprietors. The period around Christmas and the New Year was another story, but the probability of having deep piles of snow on the ground and, worse, Arctic winds blowing in from the vast North Sea beyond the waterfront promenade were so great it was hardly worth the effort.
Thus, most of the establishments were dark even on a Saturday night which left the Naughty Mile looking a ghost town - the only thing missing to complete the image was a tumbleweed or two rolling along the abandoned promenade.
Sally brought the Plymouth down to the local speed limit of 10 miles per hour as she entered the southern part of the promenade. Seeing the extra-wide sidewalk next to the driving lane almost devoid of life was a strange experience, but it was in fact a help as she didn't have to look out for drunken jaywalkers who would frequently stagger onto the driving lanes without a care in the world.
Vicky leaned forward to look out of the Plymouth's split windscreen. "What did you say the restaurant was called?"
"Marcello's."
"Haven't seen it yet. I'll let you know."
"Gee, thanks, doll! I don't know what I'd do without ya!"
A grumbled "And my name is Vicky," soon escaped the lady on the right - the lady on the left grinned and reached over to pat her companion's knee.
---
They carried on for another seventy yards or so before they both spotted the neon sign above the main entrance at Marcello's Quality Seafood at the exact same time. Exclamations of "There! Marcello's!" -- "Finally!" filled the sedan as Sally pulled over to the curb at once.
"Dammit, the parking lot's already closed for the evening," Sally said, pointing at the sturdy bar that had been lowered across the entrance. "That means I'll just park over here, then… guess there ain't too many hoodlums around to scratch the paint job."
The car's right-hand wheels were soon driven over the curb and onto the flat surface of the waterfront promenade itself. Though Sally eventually turned off the engine, she made no move to go anywhere - instead, she knocked a Serrano's Special Blend cigarette out of the pack and stuck it between her lips. "Toots, I have the point until we know who's who and what's what. Okay?" she said as she ignited the cigarette with her trusty Sparkie lighter.
"Oh, I certainly won't argue that point."
Pale-gray smoke soon wafted past Sally's steely eyes that kept Marcello's under close surveillance. "We got no way of knowing what's been going on since I spoke to Marilyn. One of the palookas might have found her. Maybe even the city wolf in the hat and coat. Hope those nasty Joes haven't, but…"
Vicky nodded somberly. "Yes, let's hope your friend is safe. I presume you're armed?"
"Naturally, sugar," Sally said, tapping the hilt of one of the Hi-Powers. The next few moments went by in tense silence - then she opened the door and stepped out onto the promenade. Vicky followed suit at the other side of the car.
Sally let her eyes roam over the paved areas by the seafood restaurant. There were fewer nooks and crannies than she had feared. It meant there were fewer deep shadows which in turn meant there were fewer places the bad guys could use to take a potshot at them when they got closer - if they were there at all, of course. "Well, you know what I say, toots," she said as she pulled one of the Hi-Powers from its holster and worked the action.
"Number one, my name is Vi-"
"In like Flynn is what I say. C'mon. Let's find my friend." Without further ado, Sally took off across the paved area at a speed that was faster than regular walking pace but not quite a jog.
A long and dramatic sigh escaped Vicky as she followed Sally to the nearest wall. Once they were both there, Sally crouched down to present an even smaller target. A hand signal proved that all was clear. On the move once more, they jogged across the wide sidewalk heading for what appeared to be a staff entrance halfway down the side of the building.
Sally reached the door first, finding that it was understated and utilitarian compared to the extravagant glass windbreak at the main entrance. The words Staff Only had been stencilled onto it in red paint. Working the latch with her free hand, she was quickly able to establish that it wasn't locked. She gestured at Vicky before they both slipped inside.
Three of the four light fixtures in the ceiling had been switched off resulting in the narrow corridor beyond the door being draped in semi-darkness. White tiles covered the floor and the walls. Sally noticed the floor glistening as if it had recently been hosed down. It made it treacherous to step on without slipping and sliding, but the apparent closing-time clean-up hadn't been able to fully negate the characteristic scent of seafood that had long since been etched into every surface of the building's interior.
A radio played jazzy notes somewhere ahead of them. Suddenly, a toilet flushed not too far from their spot in the corridor. Sally put a finger to her lips to warn Vicky about speaking.
The familiar sounds of water splashing from a faucet soon joined the flushing toilet - then a door opened not ten feet ahead of Sally and Vicky. A shadowy figure stepped out into the semi-dark corridor. Vicky gasped.
"All right, Joe! Reach!" Sally cried, stepping forward with the Hi-Power ahead of her. "Toss yer roscoe and turn around! We need to do a little jawing about a certain someone, see?"
A high-pitched shriek burst forth from the shadowy figure - a moment later, it fizzled out to give way to a trembling: "Sally! It's me… it's me!"
"Marilyn?! Thank God you're still safe… will someone turn on the stinking lights? A girl can't find her own boobs in here!"
A long and dramatic sigh fueled by Sally's salty language escaped Vicky as she began searching for a light switch - she found it near the door they had used to enter the corridor which meant they had walked straight past it.
No sooner had the lights come on in the ceiling before several things happened in rapid succession: Marilyn let out a heartfelt cry and dove straight into Sally's arms. A split second later, one of the restaurant's employees ran into the corridor wielding a meat cleaver. Another split second on from that, Vicky shrieked, Marilyn shrieked even louder and Sally cleaned the employee's clock through a forceful left hook that made a ten-count impact directly onto the person's chin.
While Vicky and Marilyn continued to shriek, the meat cleaver rattled harmlessly onto the white tiles on the floor. The lethal instrument was soon followed by the employee who simply collapsed like a torn sack of turnips.
Sally winced as the sharp pain that originated at her knuckles spread like wildfire past her wrist and up her arm. "All right, that does it! Marilyn, we need to get you the hell out of here-" she said as she grabbed hold of her friend's arm and began dragging her down toward the staff exit.
"No! Oh, no, Sally… wait! Wait… wait!" Marilyn cried, resisting every step of the way. "I'm not in danger! Frederic was just trying to protect me! You must listen! Please!"
"Who the hell is… oh… oh, dammit!" Sally growled, staring at the helpful employee who had been reduced to a messy pile of arms, legs and rolling eyes. She and Vicky shared a long look before she shook her head and holstered the Hi-Power. "Well, if Mista Knight In Shining Armor there hadn't come at us with a meat cleaver, I wouldn't have… oh, never mind. Let's get him upright. Doll?"
"I have his left arm," Vicky said, rolling her own eyes just as hard as Frederic's, though for other reasons.
---
Five minutes later, Marilyn dabbed a soaked washcloth against the bruise on the side of Frederic's chin. They had relocated to the restaurant itself that had already closed for the evening - as his chin was being worked on, the employee eyed Sally warily and made sure to keep well back from the spitfire.
"Frederic has been so kind to me all evening," Marilyn said for Sally's benefit. "He doesn't speak much English, but he allowed me to stay here while I waited for you to arrive. He was there when poor, poor Dimitris was attacked by those terrible men so he knew what I was going through. He was just trying to help!"
"Yeah, huh?" Sally said, pushing her hat back from her brow. She leaned against a pillar as all the chairs had already been put up onto the tables to ease the daily chore of washing the vast floors - unlike most other restaurants at the promenade, Marcello's used planed and lacquered wooden planks to create the illusion that it was in fact an old fishing boat operating somewhere in the Mediterranean. "Well, I sure am sorry for punching his lights out. It coulda been worse. I coulda blown his head clean off."
A horrified expression fell over Marilyn's face before she turned to Frederic to offer him an edited translation of the Private Investigator's comments.
"Say," Sally continued, moving away from the pillar, "what's that language?"
"It's French, actually. I took a few classes when I bought the holiday home in Switzerland," Marilyn said, once more dabbing the washcloth against the young man's chin. "Frederic's from the island of Corsica. He speaks a rural dialect but we can understand each other fairly well."
"Okay. So he's a Corsair or whatever… and this is a Mediterranean seafood restaurant… and your missing loverboy is Greek. Ya know, Marilyn, something sure does smell funny around here… and it ain't the shrimp salad, if you know what I mean."
Marilyn turned to shoot Sally a puzzled glance. "I'm not sure I do… what are you trying to tell me?"
Sobering, Sally came out to stand in the center of the large room. She bared her teeth in a grimace as she cast a longing glance at the corridor. This was the moment where she needed Vicky's calming presence, but the lady had needed to borrow the staff bathroom after the earlier fright. "Well, maybe that visiting this place and Dimitris gettin' kidnapped weren't coincidences at all."
"You've lost me completely, Sally. What do you mean… not coincidences?"
Sally pushed her hat back, then forth before she took it off altogether to gain some sincerity. "Ah, well, it's like this, see… I hate to break this to you 'cos of our past and 'cos you're such a swell dame and all, but there's something about Dimitris Stefanidou that you need to know. Ah… it sure ain't pretty and you're gonna be upset."
"I already know about Dimitris being married back in Greece. I also know that he lost his wife," Marilyn said sternly as she returned to the task of dabbing the washcloth against Frederic's chin. "He confided in me. She was killed by the Germans when they attacked their village in the early days of the invasion."
"Ah… yeah… that's true, but… ah… yeah. That's kinda not all there is to that story. See?" - A sigh of relief escaped Sally when Vicky returned from her bathroom break to join them. "Ah! Toots, just the gal I need-"
"Vicky. Remember? V-i-c-k-y. Vicky. It's very easy to pronounce," Vicky said, brushing past the embarrassed private eye to stride over to Marilyn to resume helping with the first aid.
Chuckling, Sally threw her arms out wide. "Vicky. I knew that. Remember when you said I had no clue-"
Vicky cut Sally off with a droll "Uh-huh?" before she turned to Marilyn and put a hand on her shoulder. "Miss Parker… I'm afraid you need to listen to what Sally has to say. She doesn't possess much empathy and her social skills are sorely lacking, but she is a highly skilled investigator. And she has learned something you need to know."
Marilyn fell silent. Furrows developed on her brow as she took in the sight of the uncharacteristically somber-faced Sally Swackhamer, P.I.
---
A further five minutes later, the earlier scene had been reversed: now, Frederic and Vicky helped comfort Marilyn as large tears ran down the lady's face, staining her exquisite skirt suit. "So it was all a sham?" she said in a thick, croaking voice.
Sally broke out in a nod that was just as somber as the look upon her face. " 'Fraid so. He's an experienced grifter. He's pulled that particular con with at least a handful of women before he found you, see? Move in, butter 'em up, tickle 'em silly, squeeze 'em for cash… and then split to start over elsewhere."
"But he's always been so kind to me… always gentle and soft-spoken… he brings me presents… and he's never asked me for a dime!"
"Yet."
Marilyn stared wide-eyed at Sally until she closed her eyes and began to shake her head instead. "God, my head is spinning right now… my whole world just fell apart!"
Sally let out a dark grunt. "I didn't say Mista Loverboy wasn't a clever so-and-so. Not only does he get to dip his rumblestick in prime-grade honey, he's made it into his primary source of income."
"Sally," Vicky said out of the corner of her mouth, "I don't think such colorful language is helping in the present situation…"
"No?"
"No."
"All right. I was planning on cutting to the chase, anyway," Sally said and moved over to her old flame. Leaning down, she took the lady's dainty hand in her own, far more calloused example. "Marilyn, if Dimitris really has been kidnapped, I promise I'll do what I can to rescue him… but… a lot of things can still go haywire once I start pokin' my nose in where those fellas think it don't belong. Yeah? It's possible he's pulling a double-sham on you. It's possible he staged the whole thing. And it's possible he doesn't want to come voluntarily… he might even do something stupid like throwin' lead when I show up. You need to remember all those things. Yeah?"
Marilyn blinked several times to get the veil of tears away from her eyes. Staring at Sally in a state best described as a hazy stupor, she eventually said: "Please don't kill him… please! Maybe he really does love me… have you thought of th-"
Sally's voice gained a hard core of iron as she spoke: "And maybe the moon's made of stinky cheese. If he unleashes the dogs of war, I'll send 'em right back at 'im. That's what I do."
Marilyn stared even wider for several, long seconds, but eventually nodded. "I've been so naive…"
"Love makes blind," Sally said before turning to Vicky. "Sugar… I mean Vicky… I got some business to take care of. I want you to stay here and look after Marilyn while I'm away. Please."
Vicky joined the staring chorus for a brief moment - then she leaned in to place a tiny peck on Sally's lips. A whispered "I will. Please be safe," earned her a small peck in return as well as a thoughtful nod.
*
*
ACT III
Heading out on the dangerous mission required that Sally made a U-turn on the waterfront promenade and drove the Plymouth sedan back down the wide street. "Ain't nothin' to it," she mumbled to herself to keep the tension in check, "all I gotta do is to enter the free port… find the basin… find the quay used by the offshore fishing boats… find berth thirty-six where the damned ice factory is located. Hell, it's gotta be somewhere close to the boats so the fish can be iced as soon as possible. Then I'm gonna bring the suitcase to the crooks and deal with 'em Sally-style. Sheesh. Ain't nothin' to it, my furry…"
The hands on her wristwatch had just moved around to half past ten in the evening as she reached the traffic lights at the end of the promenade, so it was high time for the case to come to a conclusion.
She needed to wait for a large truck-and-trailer combo to lumber past before she could turn right onto the connecting street. Once there, the main gate to the free port was only the proverbial stone's throw away so it didn't take her long to reach it.
Although a sentry box watched over the main entrance - and numerous signs warned of armed security personnel on duty around the clock - it seemed that the lateness of the hour had dulled the guards' senses. Apart from a brief stop at the sentry box itself, no one seemed to take an interest in the dark Plymouth sedan. Deliberately acting low-key, Sally stuck to the 15 miles-per-hour speed limit as she drove around the vast free port.
She had to chuckle when it appeared that the standard-sized sedan had shrunken to the size of a toy car: all the driving lanes in the port were designed for trucks and other large transport equipment, so even the stately Plymouth would only take up half the width of the lanes.
It seemed there was a near-perfect 50-50 split among the scores of warehouses and storage facilities with regards to having the lights on or not - it led to some being pitch-black while others were brightly lit. One or two only had weak external lights illuminating a door or loading ramp, but they were the rarest of the bunch.
Sally slowed down to a crawl when she clapped eyes on a group of men who all shared the characteristic beefy, burly looks of street toughs. Loitering outside one of the storage facilities, the men seemed to wait for something or someone. A delivery truck soon arrived after which the men went to work offloading boxes into the warehouse.
Chuckling, Sally mashed the gas once more which made the Plymouth pick up its pace. "How unusual to see Jimmy the Ice-Pick's crew actually working… sure doesn't happen often," she mumbled to herself as she kept an eye on the scene in the rear-view mirror. A moment later, she let out another chuckle. "A sawbuck says they were shifting hot property… man, no bookie would ever take that bet!"
---
The grin had disappeared from Sally's face by the time she closed in on the deep basins where most of the offshore fishing boats were moored during the evening hours. She glanced to her right at Vicky's battered, old suitcase that was meant to fool the crooks.
Chances were it might do exactly that, but only on a visual level - the charade would end the instant they picked it up as it obviously weighed next to nothing. In any other situation, she would have stuffed it full of old newspapers to simulate the weight of money, but there simply hadn't been time for that.
Catching a glimpse of a public telephone booth off to her left made her pull the Plymouth through another U-turn. Once the sedan had been brought to a halt next to the booth, she got out while rummaging through her coat's pockets for a few dimes.
The sliding door was rusty and reluctant to open - no doubt a result of the proximity to the saltwater basins - but at least the bulb in the ceiling came on so she could see what she was doing. For a change, there was no need to look through the directory installed underneath the unit.
Sally kept a watchful eye on her surroundings as she dug into another pocket for her trusty notepad. Upon finding the appropriate information, she took the receiver off the hook and held it to her ear to test for a connection. "Hello, operator? I need to get in touch with the watch desk of the Nineteenth Precinct police station, if ya don't mind. No, I don't know the exchange. Sure, I'll hold."
Nearly half a minute went by before a string of clicks and hisses proved a new connection had been established. When Sally heard a gruff voice speaking in her ear, she concentrated on what she had written in the notepad. " 'Evening, Sarge. This is Sally Swackhamer, licensed Private Investigator. I have urgent news regarding an ongoing case of murder in the first. I need to be patched through to Homicide Detective Mike Moran. Yeah. The killing of Johan 'Bull-Nose' Pravka on Eighty-seventh Street this morning. Yeah. Thanks. Yeah, I'll hold."
Several more clicks and hisses came down the line before another male voice entered Sally's ear. "Hiya, Detective. Another long shift, huh? There's been a development in the Pravka case- pardon? A-yup. I have reason to believe the trigger man may be cooped up at the Sorenson-Fisk Ice Production Facility located on one of the quays used by the fisher- yeah, in the free port. No, I don't know the exact address… well, I do and I don't, see? Yeah. It's at quay berth thirty-six, but- yeah, that's what I said. Where the hell that is, I ain't got a clue… yet."
Movement off to Sally's right made her squint in that direction - realizing it was nothing more than a regular delivery truck rumbling past, she turned back to the telephone. "In any case, Detective, the wolf who bumped off Pravka has apparently kidnapped a fella and is holding him prisoner for a ten-grand ransom- yeah. Yeah, exactly… at the ice factory, see? Weeeellll, I might be considering going in- what? Huh? Sorry, bub, you're coming in real broken and garbled… we got ourselves a bad line. I better hang up and try again. Hi de ho, bub."
Chuckling at Moran's increasingly frantic demands for her to stand down and leave the hard work to the police, Sally put the receiver back on the telephone unit and stepped out of the booth.
A knot of worry began to develop in her gut at the prospects of going blind into a deal where she had no knowledge of her number of opponents or how they would react. The situation called for a soothing cigarette, so she knocked a Serrano's Special Blend out of the pack and lit it at once.
---
The cigarette had been smoked down to the ring by the time she arrived at the Sorenson-Fisk Ice Production Facility. The warehouse itself was a rectangular, two-story brick building 300 feet long and 90 feet wide. A single chimney protruded from the sloping roof roughly halfway along the building. The end wall that she had a good view of was equipped with a sliding gate made of corrugated iron that appeared wide enough for trucks to enter unhindered.
The building seemed too large for an ice factory to be its sole user - a handful of company signs and logos that had been attached to a section of the outer wall appeared to back up the notion.
A deep shadow large enough for a Plymouth Sedan was soon located and utilized. Sally let out a grunt of surprise when she realized the car's ashtray was squeaky clean to the point of being virginal - when she had needed to knock off ash, she had simply done so out of the open window. Instead of filthying the ashtray by stubbing out the cigarette, she threw out the butt after taking a final puff.
A "Hmmm…" escaped her as she took in the sight of the sliding gate on the southern-most end wall. From bitter experience, she knew those things would always howl, squeak and generally wail like a dragon with a toothache when manipulated. She might get in, but since everyone and their uncle would have been alerted to her presence, it would be a waste of time to even attempt it.
She patted the hilts of the twin Hi-Powers just to be sure she still had her little friends with her - then she stepped out of the car, grabbed Vicky's empty suitcase, hunched over and jogged across the semi-dark street.
---
The suitcase was soon put up against the sliding gate, thus following the demands made by the kidnappers. Just as Sally had predicted, all the chains, latches and hinges on the sliding gates were rusty after their constant exposure to the saltwater in the nearby basins. She held one of her Brownings ready as she tried to give the chain the tiniest of yanks, but even the minuscule action resulted in a squeak that rendered further trying a waste of time.
"Dammit… all right… there better be an open door somewhere around here," she mumbled to herself as she set off along the end wall to get to the nearest corner. Reaching it, she carried out a quick peek down the far side to check for night watchmen, harbor bums or other types of folks she had no time to deal with in the present situation.
The west side of the warehouse was located directly on the quay so the distance to the basin and the fishing boats mooring there could be kept at a minimum. Seven or so flat carts were lined up next to the brick wall - they appeared to have been tied together using traditional maritime rope rather than metal chains that would never be able to withstand the harsh conditions.
The flat carts mattered little to Sally, but the wide-open portal next to them certainly did. A rare positive grunt left her as she ran along the side of the warehouse to get to the opening. Reaching it, she nodded to herself as she noticed a sign that said Berth 36.
A strong odor of fish struck her nostrils as she peeked inside. The interior had been split into three sections: directly in front of her were two ice-machines creating enormous blocks and tiny cubes of crushed ice, respectively.
The right-hand part of the large warehouse was used for storing hundreds if not thousands of wooden crates fit for fish, crabs and lobsters, and the left-hand part was home to anchors, cable drums, fishing nets for trawling and assorted other equipment used by the offshore fishermen.
Music was playing somewhere in the background, but it was difficult to tell exactly where the faint tones came from as the winds that swept over the basins behind her played an eternal symphony in the rigging and superstructures of the boats.
She had barely taken half a step onto the concrete floor when her gumshoe slipped. Though she teetered on the edge of falling on her backside, she managed to stay erect by flailing her arms like a wirewalker - the natural defrosting of the ice caused the floor to be in a permanent state of dampness.
"Ouch… dammit! I gotta remember that… can't run in here," she mumbled as she reached down to massage her right thigh muscle that had been stretched by the unexpected Bambi-moment.
Once she had tip-toed further into the warehouse, the background music grew louder. It seemed that a radio had been tuned to one of the local stations playing a mix of swing, boogie-woogie and traditional big-band music. As the latest tune came to an end, a butter-voiced announcer waxed lyrically about a debuting artist whose new record would undoubtedly climb to the very top. Soon, a female singer belted out an uptempo boogie-woogie accompanied by a band whose instruments were a bit too loud for the singer's own pipes.
Sally came to a sudden stop when she picked up the sound of male voices as well - not from the radio, but from a small break room at the rear of the warehouse. Although she was still 20 yards or so away from it, she could see that the inner door was open which allowed her to be privy to the men's private conversation. Or to be precise, she would have been if they hadn't been speaking in a foreign language.
Scrunching up her face, she strained her hearing in the hope of picking up familiar phrases or terms that could help her. The language the men spoke wasn't Spanish, Italian, German, Russian or even Hebrew. She was certainly no skilled linguist, but Mooresburg City had so many ethnic neighborhoods that everyone - and especially someone like her who worked all over town - couldn't help but pick up the odd phrase here and there.
"And it sure ain't French, either. Gee whiz, I wonder if it's Greek?" she mumbled to herself as she hunched over even further. Moving ahead in perfect silence, she reached the wall of the staff room where she found a shadow to hide in.
The break room proved not to be a room at all, merely a section of the warehouse that had been separated from the rest by a seven-foot-tall wall of poorly-made scaffolding and further sheets of corrugated iron.
Up close, Sally's nose was able to pick up a scent of warm food coming from inside the small room - then she recognized metal-on-metal clattering akin to spoons being dug into tin cans. The men were obviously eating a late supper which meant they focused on that rather than the open door. A round of laughter seemed to suggest her theory was sound.
A steely expression fell over Sally's face as she weighed her options:
One, she could barge in guns-drawn to catch everyone off guard. If the men inside were fishermen or factory workers, there would be no problem and she would simply apologize and move on to try elsewhere.
Two, she could hazard a peek through the open door to see their number and what kind of opponents she was dealing with. The risk of being spotted and then fired upon was so great it bordered on the suicidal.
Three, she could exploit the fact that the staff's break room had no ceiling by climbing up onto something and literally be an eye in the sky.
The tension and the adrenaline blasting through her caused her inner temperature to skyrocket, so she needed to take off her fedora to wipe her brow on her sleeve. Casting a look around, she couldn't see anything she could climb up onto that wouldn't be a greater hazard to her health than the hot lead that was sure to be flung at her in case the men really were the bad guys.
"Oh well… who wants to live forever?" she mumbled as she plonked the hat back onto her blond locks and drew her second Hi-Power. Several deep breaths followed before she jumped up and barged in through the open door.
The first split second was spent on taking in all the details: the break room was equipped with a small, olive-green field kitchen that had to be a surplus unit from the war. Two Army-style bunk beds had been set up by the far wall. The radio - that continued to play cheery boogie-woogie - stood on the seat of an old chair. A wooden crate filled with empty cans of Spam, corned beef and baked beans had been placed next to the chair.
A table with space for four had been put in the center of the room. Three men were busy eating a late supper just like Sally had theorized - two of them faced the door while the final one had his back turned.
During the next split second, Sally recognized Dimitris Stefanidou as one of the men facing her. The lothario wore a heavy coat that covered a pale-blue business suit - he grinned at first, but the look of utter shock that exploded onto his face when he realized they weren't alone was priceless.
The coat-wearing fellow whose back was turned was still an unknown, but the man next to Stefanidou wore shiny, black shoes, dark-gray pants, a black trench coat and a dark-gray fedora just like the trigger-artist who had given Johan Pravka a gift certificate for Harp Lessons for Absolute Beginners.
The third split second had Sally barking "Toss your rods and reach for the clouds!" at the top of her lungs as she came fully into the break room.
Time had slowed down to a crawl since she had barged inside, but now everything seemed to happen in fast-motion. Dimitris Stefanidou let out a wild squeal that a seagull would have been proud of. He was still squealing when he jumped away from the table and dove for cover over by the radio - not that a chair would provide much in the way of protection when the lead started flying. The motion knocked the radio off its perch and onto the hard floor where it came to a crashing end, silencing it forever.
The hitherto unknown man spun around on his chair and reached under his coat. When his face became visible, Sally thought she was seeing double as he bore a striking resemblance to Stefanidou, except that he appeared to be a handful of years younger than the lothario.
The professional hitman had very little interest in tossing anything, so he jumped to his feet and kicked over the table which sent the spoons, the tin cans and their sticky contents of baked beans in tomato sauce flying toward Sally's spot at the doorway. Roaring, he whipped his coat aside and grabbed the same .45 he had used on Pravka.
"Don't be a schmuck! Cantcha see I gotcha covered?!" Sally roared back, but that was all she had time for as the combined firepower of the two men was unleashed. A weak-chested popp-popp-popp from her youngest opponent's .32 revolver didn't amount to much, but the hitman's .45 created such a loud boom that dust trickled down from the rafters.
All three of the .32 slugs went wide, but the single .45 tore a gaping hole in Sally's trench coat - fortunately, it didn't make a detour into her soft flesh but chose to stay on the straight and narrow and simply tore another jagged hole as it exited.
Stefanidou continued to whine and squeal from his spot on the floor behind the chair's legs, but a roared curse from the hitman made him pipe down and pull the heavy coat over his head so the aggressor could no longer see him.
Yet another split second later, Sally let her Brownings do the talking by sending a barrage of hot lead into the room. She didn't pause to see whether or not her six rounds had found a target, but a pained cry suggested that at least one of them hadn't been wasted. Further thunderous booms from the .45 caused her to spin around and exit the break room in an almighty hurry.
Instead of risking her neck on the slippery part of the warehouse, she made a ninety-degree right-hand turn and dove for cover behind a large, wooden drum. She holstered one of the Hi-Powers to explore the state of her trench coat. A long and sublimely annoyed sequence of various grumbled four-letter words escaped her when she realized she could poke her entire arm through the holes created by the slug.
"Youse guys in there might as well give it up and toss yer rods 'cos the boys in blue are coming!" she roared to vent some of her frustration - predictably, all she got out of it was another lead curtain hurled her way.
The men started shouting to each other in the same language they had spoken earlier. The lack of firing prompted Sally to stick her head out to get a closer look of the break room. "Dimitris! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you! I know you got some brains, so be a smart cat and tell your pals there to quit before somebody earns himself a headstone!"
A trembling cry of 'Who the hell are you?!' burst out of the small room - its effect was lessened by the fact that it reached into the register generally known as Knee-Knocking, Boundless Panic.
"Me? Sally Swackhamer, P.I.! A friend of Marilyn Parker's… remember her, bub? You damn well oughtta!"
'Wh- what's your stake in all this? Can't we cut a deal?!'
"We sure can, pal! Just toss out your roscoes-" The reply came at once in the shape of a burst of slugs that screamed through the large warehouse. Several of them ricocheted off the smooth floor creating sparks and puffs of concrete. Others were aimed higher and struck some of the bricks that shattered into countless fragments.
"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, those palookas ain't messin' around!" Sally croaked as she pulled herself even further backward into the shadows behind the large drum. The hiding place didn't present her with a good angle of the open door, but it didn't stop her from moving one of the Hi-Powers above the drum and emptying the magazine in that general direction.
As the slider stayed in the reverse position to signal the fun had come to a temporary end, she ejected the empty magazine and slapped a new one in double-quick. The Hi-Power was soon joined by its brother to form an unstoppable force.
The three men in the break room had misinterpreted the lull in the fighting as a sign of weakness on their opponent's part, so they came blasting out on a mad dash for the door - and 'blasting' was to be taken literally as the professional hitman laid down such a murderous screen of cover fire that it was a miracle that Sally didn't catch one of the .45 presents that were lobbied at her.
Unfortunately, her fedora was less lucky. She had barely begun to return fire when the fashion statement was torn from her locks. As it sailed through the air, it became painfully evident that a large chunk had been ripped out of the rim. Sally briefly tracked the mortally wounded garment before she let out a roar of indignation and fired away at everything and everyone responsible for the heinous crime.
Another pained cry proved that she had hit someone, but she had no time to figure out which of her three opponents had caught one. Jumping up, she ran ahead with her Brownings ready to fire. The next chance to avenge her hat came when she heard someone yelping loudly - the cry had come from the central section of the warehouse, and she surmised that someone had forgotten all about the slippery conditions in their haste to get away.
Her prediction was proven correct at once when she reached the ice machines: the hitman was down on his left side, clutching his knee and moaning in pain. The .45 had skidded across the wet floor and had ended up out of his reach.
Not too far from the fallen warrior, Dimitris Stefanidou held onto the third and youngest member of the extortion and kidnapping ring. The young man bled from not one but two bullet wounds, so it seemed that he had twice been in the wrong place at the wrong time during the fire fight.
"Stefanidou! Getcha hands up! Reach, pal!" Sally roared as she entered the scene. Remembering the treacherous floor, she tip-toed around the outer edge of the water while keeping everyone covered with her Brownings.
"I can't! He'll fall if I let go!" Dimitris cried back.
"So let 'im fall- hey!" - Sally whipped her head around to face the fallen hitman who had begun to crawl over to his pistol. "Hey, buster! I'll drill a brand new hole in your melon if ya grab that gun! Dontcha hear good? Lemme show you what I have in mind!"
Aiming at the floor directly ahead of the hitman's outstretched hand, Sally squeezed the trigger which kicked up a splash of water, a shower of sparks and a large puff of concrete dust when the lead struck the floor. "Does that improve your hearin', bub? I'm guessin' it will! Stay the hell away from that lightning rod, pal!"
The hitman spewed out several harsh words in the same language as earlier, but it seemed he accepted his fate for now as he let the pistol lie and began to clamber to his feet. The pained hisses he let out was clue enough that his knee had taken a hard knock when he had slipped on the wet floor.
At the same time, the youngest member of the team let out a few sobs and moans. The sounds made Dimitris Stefanidou let him down onto the wet floor - large, crimson stains had ruined Stefanidou's coat and elegant pale-blue business suit.
"Where did he get it?" Sally said to Stefanidou while keeping a keen eye on the hitman - she knew full well that a pro of his caliber would try to pull a stunt or perhaps even stage a breakout when she least expected it.
Dimitris tried to wipe the blood off his hands, but his frantic gestures only made the smears grow larger. Ultimately, he gave up. "One in the arm, one in the thigh," he said in a voice that held a certain buttery charm in spite of the high-tension environment he found himself in.
"That cat your brother or something? You look awfully alike."
"Yes. Younger brother."
"I see. I'll bet your Momma told you to make sure no harm would come to junior. Yeah?" Sally said as she inched closer to the three men. "So why the hell did you invite him into this mess? Now look whatcha done."
Dimitris eyed his brother for a moment before he shook his head. "He was always there. We've never had problems until now."
"Yeah, well, youse guys ain't had Sally Swackhamer to deal with until now, pal. Ya shouldn't have messed with my friend. That was low-down and dirty, even for a flim-flam artist. And speaking of wotcha shouldn't have done… ya shouldn't have killed Pravka, bub. That'll get you the chair as an accessory after the fact."
Stefanidou took a deep breath that was closer to a gasp. Whipping his head around, he stared at the hitman who still couldn't stand up straight. "I had nothing to do with that! Nothing! That was Kostas! I wasn't even there!"
A hard sequence of barked Greek words spewed from the injured Kostas Manakis whose face had turned tomato-red from the pain and the implications of Dimitris's words.
"Don't care. Save it for the night-court judge, pal," Sally said, shaking her head.
As she spoke, she took another tip-toeing step onto the wet, slippery surface. Despite her best efforts, she nearly lost her footing when a section of the concrete floor proved to have a thin layer of ice underneath the sheet of water - thus making it even more slippery than the areas surrounding it.
The fast-thinking Manakis took full advantage of Sally's mishap by reaching behind his back at blinding speed. A moment later, an eight-inch blade - not too dissimilar to Sally's double-edged fillet knife back home in one of her filing cabinets - sailed through the air on a direct collision course with her chest.
Howling, she threw herself onto the floor as fast as she could - the hard and ungraceful landing rattled her teeth and made her bite her tongue, but it was still better than having a knife sticking out her torso.
The howl turned into a roar of outrage that was accompanied by three rapid shots in Kostas Manakis's direction. The first went clean over his head, but the second and third both impacted on his right shoulder and arm sending him sprawling onto the floor for a second time.
"Nailed the wolf… maybe I oughtta skin that sonovabitch," Sally growled as she shuffled around so she could get back on her feet. The growl only deepened when she looked at herself and the huge, damp patches that had developed on her coat and her pants. "Aw, ain't that swell! Now it looks like I pissed all over myself!"
Stefanidou understood it wasn't the best time to make a comment about anything whatsoever, but the wounded hitman was less accommodating - once again he let out a string of harsh-sounding words as he sat up and stared at his bleeding arm.
"What did that palooka say?" Sally growled as she tried - unsuccessfully - to wipe some of the excess water off her pants.
Dimitris cast wary glances at his wounded compatriot and then at the fierce, heavily armed warrioress. "Ah… you don't want to know."
"Oh, yes I do!"
"But I'm not going to translate it! There's been enough violence!"
Sally was about to open her mouth to add another gruff remark when the characteristic sounds of several police sirens reached their ears. The remark soon had to take a back seat to a wide grin that spread over her face. "Ah, yes. The boys in blue. Like I told ya."
Before long, Homicide Detective Mike Moran and a host of uniformed officers swarmed out of their vehicles and into the warehouse. Sally had no time to warn them about the slippery floor, so several of them learned the hard way by ending up with their backsides submerged in a puddle.
"Just the fella I wanted to see on this fine Saturday evenin'. Hiya, Detective. Sorry 'bout the mess," Sally said with a grin when she was joined by Mike Moran whose brown corduroy pants had just become dripping wet.
The experienced cop grumbled a little at the unfairness of it all, but his annoyance was soon transformed into surprise when he clapped eyes on the three fellows. "So… what do we have here? Who are those men?"
"The well-dressed one is Dimitris Stefanidou, see?" Sally said, pointing at the first of the three. "He's got half a dozen aliases, and they're all connected to shams. A-yup, he's a con man. A grifter. A flim-flam artist. A whizz-bang merchant of the worst class who's left a string of dames with broken hearts and low tide in their bank accounts. The young'un is his kid brother… never got his name, actually. And that bleeding SOB there is none other than the city wolf who pulled the trigger on Johan Pravka. Kostas-somebody. Yeah. They're all yours, Detective."
While Mike Moran turned to the uniformed officers to bring them up to speed, Sally went back to pick up her fedora. She quickly established that it had given its life to support a cause so vital for her good health and humor, namely that she even had a head to hang a hat on.
Staring at the large chunk that had been torn from its shade by Kostas Manakis's .45, she couldn't help but consider the alternative. The somber thoughts called for a cigarette, so a Serrano's Special Blend was soon found and puffed on.
"Hey, P.I.?" Dimitris Stefanidou said while his hands were being cuffed behind his back by a big, burly officer. "Please tell Marilyn I'm sorry about the whole thing. She was special."
A dark grunt escaped Sally. "Like hell I'm gonna tell her that, bub. It'll only make the pain worse for her."
The smoke wafted past her squinting eyes as she spoke, but the cigarette was soon pulled from her lips to make room for her mounting annoyance with the slick operator: "Do you know what really makes my blood boil, pal? That you lure those gals into bed, take their money and leave them to deal with all the resulting crap on their own! To me, that's worse than pullin' an armed heist, Buster!"
The uniformed officers were already yanking Dimitris toward the paddy wagon to take him downtown for booking and processing, but he had just enough time to shout "Just for the record, we never did it! She didn't want to and I respected that!" before he was hurled head-first into the rear of the van.
"Well, whoop-di-do, Mista… you sure are a big, ol' boy scout, aintcha?" Sally said before the cigarette was mashed between her lips once more and put through a severe puffing.
---
Half an hour later - after giving the long arm of the law an official statement and helping them compile a thorough timeline of the entire case - Sally brought the Plymouth Sedan to a halt in front of Marcello's Seafood Restaurant at the waterfront promenade. She cast a somber glance at the dark restaurant. The news she had to share wouldn't go down well, that was a given.
She remained in the car for as long as it took her to smoke another cigarette. When she couldn't put it off any longer, she crossed over the wide sidewalk and went in through the staff entrance around the back of the building. Soft music greeted her almost at once - it seemed the radio had been tuned to a live broadcast from one of Mooresburg City's many late-night dance halls.
Vicky, Marilyn Parker and Frederic, the young waiter, sat at a table playing cards when Sally entered the restaurant. The Private Eye observed them in silence for a few moments before she stepped into the light so the others could see her.
Marilyn noticed her first, bolting upright at such a frantic pace the chair tipped over. "Sally! How did it go? Where's Dimitris?!" she cried as she ran over to her dear friend and former lover. She grabbed hold of Sally's shoulders with such strength that the ruined trench coat was pulled askew. "Is he all right? He's all right, isn't he?! Please say something!"
"Dimitris is just fine, Marilyn. There ain't a nick on him-"
"Thank God! So where is he?"
"Marilyn-"
"Please, Sally! I want to see him at once! I need to talk to him!"
Shaking her head several times, Sally reached up to ease the vise-like grip Marilyn's strong hands had on her shoulders. "Marilyn, you gotta listen to me," she said in a voice that proved without the shadow of a doubt that whatever would come next, it wouldn't be good - the somber tone made Vicky get up from the chair to help.
Even Marilyn recognized the tone and the look upon Sally's face. Her face grew paler as the seconds ticked by. As the ugly truth began to shimmer in the near distance, she wobbled back to the table ably assisted by Vicky. Sitting once more, Marilyn said "What… what's wrong? You- you said he was all right…" in a semi-whispered croak.
"He is all right," Sally said, moving over to the table. "I suspect he's in the pokey at the Nineteenth Precinct stationhouse as we speak."
"Wh- what? I don't understand… what does that mean?"
Sally let out a deep sigh and looked to Vicky for some hands-on assistance - the secretary provided it by rubbing Marilyn's shoulders.
"He fessed up, Marilyn," Sally said, rubbing her face. Tension rose as the next few moments went by in silence - then she broke out in a shrug. "You were just… dammit, I don't know how to sugarcoat it so I ain't gonna. You were the latest victim in a long line of swindles. Dimitris Stefanidou has taken advantage of dozens of ladies all over the Northern Seaboard. Financially and sexually-"
"No! We never…"
"He told me," Sally said, nodding. "But I'm afraid that's how his sham works, see? Once he gets his sticky fingers on the ladies' moolah, he leaves 'em high and dry. Then the SOB goes elsewhere to start over. Over and over and over."
"No…"
"Yeah. Dammit, I wish it wasn't so and that it hadn't happened to such a swell dame, but… that's the cold, nasty truth," Sally said, breaking out in a wide shrug. "You got conned by a smooth operator. That's it and that's that."
The rest of the color disappeared from Marilyn's face. Leaning back on the chair, all she could do was to sit there with a look in her wide-open eyes that said there was nothing left inside.
To give Marilyn some space, Vicky pulled back and moved the long way around the table. Once she had reached Sally, she wrapped her long arms around the Private Investigator's short but powerful frame. "Are you all right?" she said in a somber voice.
"Sure. I'm fine."
"Your clothes certainly don't look fine… was it bad?"
Sally glanced at the sorry state of her trench coat and her fedora. They could be mended, at least in theory, but no self-respecting gumshoe would ever wear less than perfect clothing - even if the garments were meant to take a lot of abuse under the most vicious of circumstances.
"Nah, it wasn't too bad. A fairly average night in my life, doll. Nobody bought the farm. The wolves got theirs and now I get mine," Sally said with a tired grin as she made sure to give Vicky another squeeze. "I might be a little sore in the morning, but… hey, that sure ain't out of the ordinary, either! Eh?"
They chuckled at that for a moment or two before they turned to look at the forlorn figure of Marilyn Parker - the lady had yet to move a muscle after learning the horrific truth about her beau.
"I can't imagine how much she must be hurting," Vicky said somberly.
Sally nodded. "I wish we had kept in touch after our fling. The moment loverboy entered her life, I woulda recognized him for the rat he is. All this emotional terror coulda been avoided. But I got a plan, see?"
When nothing further came from the P.I., Vicky let out one of her trademark dramatic sighs - she even adjusted her glasses to show that she really wasn't pleased with the little spiel. "Can't you just tell me? Why do I have to drag everything out of-"
"Well, since ya ask so nicely," Sally said, nudging Vicky's side, "her hubby loves and supports her or else he wouldn't have agreed to her exploring life. So… here's the plan, see? We drive Marilyn home and tell the ol' geezer his wife needs him more than ever. I'll betcha a sawbuck he'll tuck 'er in tonight and then spend his time doing all he can to make her happy again."
"That's a pretty good plan."
"Well, obviously, sugar! I came up with it!"
Vicky narrowed her eyes down into slits. "Can you spell conceited? And my name is-"
"Less talking and more action, toots," Sally said with a lop-sided grin. After moving away in a hurry before one of Vicky's long arms could give her a smack, she was soon at Marilyn's side to bring her up to speed on the plan.
At the same time, Vicky's pale-blue eyes rolled incessantly behind the lenses of the nut-brown frame. A deep sigh turned into a chuckle as she set off to assist Sally and Marilyn - it seemed the long evening was about to get even longer…
*
*
THE END.