The Devil You Know (19 page)

“Bloody ruffian,” he muttered. “They were going to bury me again. Twice in two nights is just a bit much.”

“You hear anything of interest?”

“Just some fellow ordering others to find a place to dig. Then there was an altercation and gunshots, and they scattered. It seemed best to remove myself, but that big one came back—for me, I think—and got in the way of my escape.”

“You discouraged him pretty good.”

“Not if he went to get help.”

Oh, crap
.

I could hear them approaching the clearing, which was not that far behind. The wind carried their voices. I thought one might be Swann’s and fought the urge to run back and punch his face out the other side of his head.

That’s not an exaggeration. I have done that.

Then it became a moot point when the whole damned crew came out of the trees, surrounding us. They kept just outside of lunging distance.

If surrendering could buy Izzy more time to escape, then so be it. I was tired, and Barrett was in no condition to deal with bullets. I held him up with one arm, and raised the other.

Barrett’s shovel handle fell, and he abruptly got heavier, having passed out. I didn’t think he was faking and let him slip the rest of the way to the ground.

This would be a good time to vanish, come back, grab a bad guy from behind in the confusion, and ignore my scruples for a few minutes until I got enough blood to make this an unfair fight again. I was an instant away from doing it until someone waved a flashlight beam in my face, blinding me a moment.

“It’s him,” said the man with the light.

My vision cleared.

Fleish Brogan was in front of me, gun in hand. He wore that nail-chewing expression, but more of it. “You sure?”

The flashlight beam hit again, not quite reaching my eyes. “I’m sure. It’s Jack Fleming. The other man’s named Barrett.”

“Clapsaddle?” I said, suddenly recognizing the voice and not knowing what to make of it.

Desmond Clapsaddle aimed the beam toward his face. He’d added an overcoat and a silk neck scarf with fringe over his wrinkled tuxedo. With no top hat, his once slicked down hair was all over the place, giving him an air of rakish dissipation. “Guilty as charged, my lad. You owe me five dollars.”

“Like hell.”

Brogan gestured to two of his heftier men. They holstered their cannons and picked up Barrett, carrying him away.

“Hey—”

The remaining guys made the same abortive movement with their guns, reminding me that I was not in charge of the situation.

“Fleming,” said Clapsaddle, “I recall you were gifted with a halfway decent brain. Do make use of it now and cooperate. This is Fleish Brogan, by the way.”

“I know.” I addressed Brogan. “I saw you at Northside Gordy’s club in Chicago.”

He didn’t react to the name-dropping, and I couldn’t tell if it was due to not remembering or if he didn’t want to give anything away.

Clapsaddle had other things on his mind and pushed forward.

“Isabelle—where is she?”

“Gone.”

He wavered, color draining from his booze-flushed cheeks. “What do you mean?”

“I mean with any luck she’s halfway to Mount Vernon by now. She was moving fast and has a gun. I wouldn’t get in her way.”

“Great,” said Brogan, who looked ready to start gnawing railroad spikes. “Just great.”

I thought so, too.

“Where’s Swann?” he asked.

“Somewhere out here.” I gestured toward the general darkness. “I don’t know if he’s armed, but he’s got plenty of men who are.”

“What are you doing with him?”

“I’m
not
with him. He kidnapped me and my friends right from your club, took us to the Pendlebury Hotel, and then out here. He seems to want to set you up for a fall involving Griffin Endicott.”

Brogan reacted to my dropping of
that
name, his eyes blazing for an instant before he got control. “What about him?”

“The man your men carried off found a body on his property and asked for my help. I told him to go to the cops, but he’s a private type and didn’t want to do that. The body could be what’s left of Endicott, and when Swann found out, things started happening. Look, if you two have a beef going, then we don’t want any part if it.”

“But you came to my club in the first place.”

“To talk to
you
, not Swann. He put himself in between.”

He frowned at the surrounding trees, but couldn’t have seen much in the general darkness, then frowned at Clapsaddle, giving a reluctant nod. “All right.”

“You sure?” Clapsaddle asked.

Brogan gave no direct reply, looking to his honor guard. “Bring him.”

Two men shoved Clapsaddle out of the way, bracketed me, and we marched after Brogan.

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

A dozen yards to the right the woods thinned and stopped. We waded through snow, crossing a shallow drainage ditch running parallel to a paved driveway. It led to a very large house in the middle distance. I was too turned around to place where we were, only that it was downwind, and that somewhere behind was the big truck, hedge, and the mortal remains of Graft Endicott.

The two men carrying Barrett set the pace, but Brogan had a long stride and passed them, getting ahead of the parade. A couple of his boys kept up, their attention on the woods, their guns still out and ready against threats from that direction.

I looked at Clapsaddle long enough so he noticed. “So this is why you’ve been ignoring Brogan in your column,” I said. “He bought you off.”

That got me one of Clapsaddle’s withering glares. He was famous for them. “It’s not what you think. I’m here to find Isabelle, and Brogan was the fastest means to do so. By the time I got to the nightclub she was gone. He had men on watch, though, which led us to the Pendlebury and eventually here.”

“You followed the truck from the hotel?”

“No need to, Brogan grabbed one of the men on watch and persuaded him to impart a few details concerning Swann’s night out. When we learned he planned to go to Pelham, Brogan displayed a breathtaking contempt for the posted speed limits. We’ve been waiting for them.”

“Brogan knew about Swann?”

“Let us say that Swann’s actions tonight confirmed a number of vague suspicions.

“And Endicott?”

“That was a surprise. Brogan thought that body was gone forever. We were set to invade Swann’s little funeral party, waiting until you and Isabelle arrived so we could get everyone at once. Then someone fired a gun and all hell broke loose. Brogan’s men rushed in—are you
sure
Isabelle’s—”

“The last I saw she was fine.” I did a rough calculation of the time and was shocked that it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, if that long, since I tackled Thorp. Izzy could still be in the immediate area, dammit. “So it was Brogan’s men shooting at us.”

“That would have been Swann’s crew. Everyone on Brogan’s side was ordered not to shoot because of Isabelle and—”

“So you and Fleish Brogan are cozy. What’s your take from him every week?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not in his pocket and never have been. It’s a gentleman’s agreement.”

“Is that what they’re calling eyewash these days?”

And very unexpectedly, Clapsaddle swung and connected. Not an easy move with one of Brogan’s men in the way. I wasn’t ready for that much pent up frustration, anger, and fear; my head snapped back from the force, but I kept my feet, barely.

It hurt him; he shook his fist out and rubbed his knuckles, pinning me with that stare. “You judgmental prig—don’t you ever doubt my word.”

My plan to goad him into talking hadn’t included collecting a right cross. “Then enlighten me.”

Our part of the parade had stopped. My escorts eyed us both.

Clapsaddle jerked his head. “He won’t run off. I’ll look after him.”

One of them made a growling sound, but decided to go. He and his friend got a few yards ahead before Clapsaddle resumed walking, slowly.

“So what put you on Brogan’s side?” I asked, pitching my voice so the guys in front wouldn’t hear.

“Graft Endicott,” he said with much disgust.

“I read your column. He disappears with forty grand, leaving his wife high and dry. Only not really.”

He snorted. “I omitted things.”

“Like Brogan killing the man three weeks earlier and carting him out to Long Island to plant the body in a fill site.”

“Yes.”

Another surprise. I didn’t think he’d admit it. “What the hell is going on, Clapsaddle? How could you not take that to the cops? You hate guys like Brogan.”

“No more than myself, my lad. And don’t put on airs with me. Your own character has been thoroughly sullied since you departed for the city of the big shoulders. You’ve hardly been subtle. Stories got back to me about your activities. I could ply you with the same questions.”

“I quit being a reporter. You haven’t.”

“Yes. . .” He drew the word out, as though mulling over the statement. He paused to dig a cigarette and lighter from his coat pocket and put them together, not offering to share. “Will you keep your mouth shut?”

He must have remembered that however drunk I got I knew how to button up. Whether I would agree to do so was another matter. “I don’t know enough to give an answer.”

“As far as Brogan’s concerned, you know enough to get yourself killed. I’m serious, Fleming. You mention this to anyone and it could mean your life.”

I took a chance. “Then don’t tell me.”

“Don’t play that game, my lad. After seven years of silence you know I can hold out, but you, your supine friend, and especially Isabelle are in real danger, and she’s the one I’m most worried about. If you understand what’s going on, then perhaps you can help me convince her to . . . to be discreet.”

“She doesn’t need help from either of us to make her mind up about things; she’s smart.”

“And stubborn. And honest. Those qualities and her talent might one day get her a Pulitzer, but she has to live to do so. My agreement with Brogan may not be adequate to protect her.”

“She’s got a better chance with him than she did with Swann.”

“That ill-named bastard. It should have been weasel.”

“What’s got you on Brogan’s side in this?”

“There’s worse people doing worse things in this city. Brogan keeps the ones within his purview in line. It’s better that he’s in charge of his patch than Swann. You go with the devil you know.” He ran a hand through his pale hair, as though his head hurt. “God, I want a drink.”

So did I. “What’s the story with you and Brogan?”

“You were a reporter, but you didn’t stay at it long enough. Sooner or later there comes a moment when you can’t simply record events; you either pull back or make a choice to take part in them.”

“With Brogan. He’s got a hold on you?”

“As I said, it is a gentleman’s agreement.”

“Only he’s no gentleman.”

“You noticed? How clever.”

“Yeah, I’m a real genius. What happened?”

“Recall, if you will, that Griffin Endicott was Brogan’s lawyer and quite literally knew where the bodies were buried. When he got caught jury-tampering and key evidence disappeared and Brogan went free, disbarment was the least of Endicott’s worries. George Medalie was the district attorney then and he was going to make an example of him. George sicced his chief assistant on him, Ted Dewey.”

Thomas E. Dewey was now the current DA, the youngest man to hold the office. He was also running for governor. In the last few years as a special prosecutor he’d earned the nickname “Gangbuster.” He was too clean to be bought off, so Dutch Schultz tried to put a hit on Dewey. The idea was voted down by savvier business associates like Lucky Luciano. They decided it was better to knock off Schultz than risk war with the feds.