Slow Burn (24 page)

“Which means there’s a good chance Jack’s still alive,” I added. “Besides, it’s easier to move a man who can walk than lugging a corpse, especially in broad daylight.”

Loomis’ grin turned into a smile. “You’re getting pretty good at this.”

“Fuck you.” I grinned back, even though it hurt my jaw.

Hauser reddened. “Too bad that shirt can’t tell you geniuses where they took him.”

I left the bedroom and took another walk around the apartment. The evidence boys were dusting the beer bottles, the radio, doorknobs and every other surface for prints. They were bound to get usable prints, but that would take some time. Like I’d said all along: Time was the one thing Jack Van Dorn didn’t have. Finding that bloody shirt proved it. The apartment was empty, but it wasn’t like we were empty handed. Hell, the room itself was a clue.

The condition of the room told me that Chamberlain had been the brains of the outfit. He’d cleaned up any and all evidence in the room at The Chauncey Arms after Enzo killed Jessica. Chamberlain might’ve been a weasel, but he was no dummy. He’d never would’ve left this much evidence lying around. Chamberlain had said they’d kept Van Dorn quiet by keeping him drunk. Enzo and the others had probably done a good job of keeping Jack that way, too, but somewhere along the way, they’d hit him. And that changed things.

Before, he’d just been a drunken payday, floating along on a sea of booze. If they had to hit him, that meant they’d had to subdue him. Now that Jack realized what was going on, he was a prisoner. That changed everything. As I watched the crime scene boys do their work, I tried putting myself in Enzo’s shoes.

Enzo and his boys were in a tough spot. We had Chamberlain in custody and they figured he’d spill everything eventually. Smart boy. Carmichael’s men would get him to talk. They’d probably gotten him to confess to shooting Lincoln by now — Booth was just a patsy. Enzo and his men were on the run, with every cop in the city looking for them.

With Chamberlain’s brains behind bars, all Enzo had was muscle. Muscle was what had gotten them into trouble in the first place; it wouldn’t be enough to keep Jack alive, much less negotiate for more money. This Enzo character probably knew that, but what could he do? In situations like these, muscle just made matters worse. Unless we made their muscle work for us.

I turned to Hauser, “Do you know if Carmichael’s boys got anything out of Chamberlain yet?”

“I just got off the phone with them before you got here.” Hauser flipped open his notebook. “Chamberlain says taking Jack was his idea, but this Enzo character handled all of the particulars — the room at The Chauncey Arms where Jessica was killed, this palace here, the works.”

Loomis rubbed his jaw. “Chamberlain give them anything on this Enzo he keeps talking about?”

Hauser went back to his notebook. “Said they’ve known each other for just a few months at The Chantilly Club, and he’s always called himself Enzo. No last name.”

I knew Hauser never gave out with more than what you asked him. “What about a description?”

Hauser read from his notebook. “Around six feet tall, mid-thirties, more or less. Dark complexion, hard looking. No scars or any distinguishable marks.”

“Christ,” Loomis said. “Could be anybody.”

“Sounds like my wife,” I said. “What else does Chamberlain know about Enzo?”

“Said Enzo sometimes does muscle jobs for Danny Stiles at…”

“Wait.” There was that name again. “Chamberlain said Enzo worked for Danny Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Hauser said. “Chamberlain said Enzo worked at some of his gambling joints around town. I guess that was before Sally Balls put Stiles on the lam. Anyway, Enzo’s friends were drifters called…” Hauser kept talking, but I couldn’t hear him.

Blood began roaring in my ears. Suddenly, all of the whispers had been drifting around my head since this whole mess started back at The Chauncey Arms started getting louder. Whispers that had been the questions I’d been pawing at all day. Questions that Hauser had just answered for me.

Question #1: Out of all the dives in this town, why bring Jessica Van Dorn to The Chauncey Arms?

Answer #1: Chamberlain said Enzo had picked it.

Question #2: Out of all the neighborhoods they could’ve holed up with Jack, why this one?

Answer #2: Chamberlain said Enzo picked it. I had a new question: With all the dumps in this neighborhood — hell, of all the dumps on this block — Enzo picked this apartment on the fourth floor of this building.

Why?

I asked Hauser: “Your boys find out who was renting this place?”

Hauser shook his head. “The maintenance guy said the landlord sometimes lets friends flop here from time to time but tells him to keep his nose out of it.”

My gut tightened. Same set-up as The Chauncey Arms. Same set-up as Jack Van Dorn’s apartment. No one to see them come or go by order of the landlord. Could be a coincidence. But I’d been a cop too long to believe in coincidences. “Who’s the landlord?”

“Maintenance guy gave us a phone number, but we called it and no answer,” Hauser said. “It traces to an office across town leased by an outfit called Smith Brothers Holdings. Original, ain’t it? We...”

I popped a cold sweat as my legs went numb. Not just because of what Hauser had said, but because of what I’d just noticed under a pile of playing cards scattered all over the poker table.

Matchbooks. I pushed the cards out of the way and picked up one of the books. It was brown. With a golden VL on the cover. The matchbooks had looked vaguely familiar when I’d found them at Jack’s apartment and again at Chamberlain’s hovel at The Chantilly Club. I knew I’d seen them somewhere before, but couldn’t place them.

But Hauser telling me that Smith Brothers Holdings owned this place changed all that. And I realized how much of a dope I’d been all day. Smith Brothers Holdings was an old name from my past. As old as the VL on the matchbooks. The whole goddamned thing came together in a rush. It had all been so simple and so complicated all at the same time. I’d been carrying the answer to this entire mess all day in my pocket.

I pushed my hat back on my head and suddenly felt like I was going to throw up.

Loomis propped me up. “What is it?”

My mouth had gone dry, so it took me a couple of seconds before I could spit it out. “Smith Brothers Holding is a dummy company.”

Loomis asked, “How do you know?”

“Because Danny Stiles owns it.”

“The gambler?” Loomis asked. “Are you sure?”

“He’s been using that cover name for years,” I said.

“That means he owns this building. If we check, I’ll bet we’ll find he owns Jack’s apartment building, and The Chauncey Arms, too. The fact that Enzo does muscle work for Stiles from time to time seals it.”

Hauser wasn’t convinced. “That doesn’t mean anything. Smith Brothers could be anybody.”

I took the matchbooks from my pocket and threw them on the poker table with the others. “I found these at Jack’s apartment and at Chamberlain’s place earlier today. They’re the same matchbooks these clowns were using. VL stands for The Velvet Lounge. It’s a gambling joint Stiles ran years ago.”

Loomis picked up one of the matchbooks and compared it to the others. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I closed it down. Got paid well for it, too.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Hauser said. “Why would a gambler be wrapped up in something like this?”

“I don’t know, but that’s what I’m going to ask him when we find him.”

“Good luck,” Hauser said. “Stiles has been hiding out from Sally Balls for the past month or so. No one knows where the hell he is.”

“Good thing I know someone who might.”

T
HE
T
ANGIERS
Cabaret was on Forty-Sixth Street off Second. The sign out front had a curved sword as the ‘T’ in Tangiers. It had been the place to go a couple of years ago, back when people had money and not a care in the world.

The tables at the place used to be booked weeks in advance, and drew some of the best acts around: Gene Krupa, Jack Teagarden, Glenn Miller, even Al Jolson once or twice. But the glory days were a distant memory. Now it was lucky to get two-bit lounge singers to even walk in the place, much less perform there.

Lucky for me, Alice Mulgrew was such a singer. When we pulled up in front, a round, swarthy little guy was sweeping the street.

Heat waves bounced up from the pavement, making the sweaty little bastard sweat all the more. Being the owner of a place called The Tangiers, most people took him for an Arab and he didn’t tell them any different. He was actually a second-generation Greek from the Bronx named Nick Pappas.

As I stepped out of the car, Pappas recognized me right away. After all, I used to shake him down for protection money when I worked Vice.

“How’s every little thing, Nicky Boy,” I said as Loomis and Hauser joined me on the street. “Been a while.”

The Greek didn’t let up with his sweeping. “Not long enough.” His accent was more Morris Heights than Morocco, but that was because there weren’t any customers around. “Go away, Charlie. Leave me alone. I don’t have any money anymore, anyway.”

“Who said anything about money? I heard Alice Mulgrew sings here these days. I’d like to talk to her for a minute.”

Pappas leaned on his broom. “Oh yeah? What about?”

“Can’t tell you that, Nicky. Police business.”

The Greek laughed. “Police business my ass. If it was police business, they would’ve sent a real cop. Not some goddamned hack.”

I laughed, too, then knocked the broom out from under him and shoved him to Hauser. Nick cursed at me while Loomis and I walked inside.

The place was dark and cool, a welcomed relief from the heat outside. It was made out to look like some kind of large Arab tent — or at least what a Greek from the Bronx thought an Arab tent would look like.

Sheer fabric was draped across the ceiling and down to the walls. The walls themselves were covered in large carpets.

Not too long ago, the colors in the place were bright enough to make you dizzy, but years of smoke and use had given the furnishings a yellowish, faded patina, like just about everything else in New York in those days. The Greek made up for it with low lighting and lots of candles all around. I helped a little, but not enough.

A woman’s voice came from the bar. “Hello, Charlie.”

Loomis and I pushed through a beaded curtain and found Alice Mulgrew sitting alone, nursing a glass of what looked like gin. It could’ve been anything, really, but I knew it wasn’t water. Water wasn’t Alice’s style.

It was hard to peg exactly what Alice’s style was, and I think that’s what made her appealing. She didn’t have the best singing voice in the world — in fact, it wasn’t very good at all. But the way she moved when she sang more than made up for it. She sold you the words, not just the song. Alice probably could’ve been a star if she’d given herself half a chance, but that wasn’t in the cards for people like her. Or me.

She was a hard luck girl who things just sort of happened to, maybe because of the kinds of men she liked. Maybe it was because of the kinds of men who liked her. Or maybe she wasn’t as brave as she should’ve been when it counted most.

The city was filled with people like her. People who were biding time, hoping another sweet-talking joker with deep pockets would walk in one night and sweep them off their feet again. I knew Alice had been lucky that way before, if you could call that being lucky.