The Lost Angel (4 page)

PAYMENT AS USUAL ON PROOF OF JOB DONE

COME TO THE CLUB. WILL SPEAK MORE THEN

Any job in these post-war times could not be turned down. Heck, he had more than just the rent to find. A secretary didn’t come cheap. 

The note was signed Victor Renetti, a low life enforcer at the Lost Angel jazz club. Renetti was the fixer for his boss, Big Mike, who had owned the club. Big Mike had died recently, shot in the alley behind the club by two armed thugs and then dumped in the rubbish, by the club staff the police assumed. It was ironic really, Mike turned the city over, treating everyone like rubbish. It seemed fitting him being dumped on like that. Poetic justice, the P.I thought. Rumor was some money had disappeared. Jack knew through a pal at the D.A’s office that the cops had no leads on the case, which wasn’t that much of a surprise. 

Jack stared at the badly written words. Yes, the ink was posh, but his five-year-old could have done a better job. Jack tasted the whiskey in his mouth and a moment of repulsion and distaste crossed his mind. ‘Could I do this?’ He shook away the thoughts. “Yes, I can,” he said out loud. He put on his jacket and fedora, grabbed his gun from the desk, his keys from the windowsill and headed for the door. He put on his coat and stepped out into the street, turning the collar against the onslaught of rain and headed across the road. It felt good to be working again. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the flavored tobacco, then raised his hand to hail a cab.

* * *

Eddy opened his eyes and looked up at the referee, who as predicted, was counting him out. He must have taken a right cross but could not remember it; stars blurred his view. Still, it was over now, and after limping off with his masculinity in tatters, the event moved on to the main fight of the evening. The crowds roared like a lion marking his territory. Eddy slipped away to the rear office to check on Kim. She was looking at some old black and white photos of Paddy in his younger days, with his family back in Dublin. “Are you alright, Kim?”

Kim glanced up. “Yeah, honey, I’m fine. Much better than you anyway. Want me to go grab a steak for that eye?”

Eddy shrugged “Don’t worry about me, doll-face.”

Kim rubbed her eyes. “It’s late and we’re on the road early tomorrow,” she said, then let out a small yawn. “Good night, Eddy.”

“Night, Doll,” Eddy said, watching her head back to her little cot. “I’m just going to have a quick word with Paddy before I turn in.”

Paddy had tucked himself in a small side room, counting the night’s takings. The sounds of the main event filtered through the door. Paddy sat on a small stool. A pile of money lay on the table before him. He looked startled when Eddy came in and sat down, but smiled after a moment. Eddy heard the distinct click of a gun being un-cocked, under the table. “Eddy, my boy, ya can’t be too careful in this place. There’s a small pot of gold here. How’s the eye, Sonny? You took quite a hammering there.” 

“I’m fine,” Eddy said. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“Ah, yes,” Paddy said as he rose. “We leave at six sharp. The fighters are taking the train. You and the little lady are coming with me in the truck. We’ll get there ahead of them. Got one more fight to go, then you and the little lady can be in the wind if you want.” Eddy just nodded

The taxi pulled up at the Lost Angel Club. Jack paid the driver and then looked up. He had to admit the place was hitting all the right notes. He headed up the black and white marble steps to the stained-glass doors. A vulgar Venus was etched in the glass, and a white stone naked angel stood on either side. They were a little gaudy but at the same time seemed to fit the look of the place.

Jack crossed a checkerboard tiled lobby. He passed a coat checkroom where a clueless dame served patrons with little more than a smile and just a hint of cleavage, through some pine doors and into the club itself. Small round tables dotted the room with a corner stage at the far end. The room was dark and smelt of hooch and wine, red velvet drapes hung on the walls, making the room seem smaller. Everything was lit by cheap vase-like table lamps and wall uplighters.  The small bar was full of barflies and even had a call girl propping up a soon-to-be sloshed Texan.

Jack made his way through the maze of tables to the bar. He sat on a high stool and scanned out the scene. Music filled the room. It came from a three-piece house jazz band of sax, double bass, and piano. Behind the long wooden bar was a thin young man with cropped black hair and a bum chin. He wore a crisp white shirt, black pants, and a black bow tie. He was in a world of his own as he polished a wine glass, staring into space. Jack shouted at him, jolting the barman back to the real world. The young man’s black greased hair shone in the bar mirrors as he placed a glass in front of Jack. “What will it be, sir?”

“Whiskey. Two of them. No ice,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Victor. You seen him?”

With his back to him, the barman pointed to a corner table then placed two whiskeys in front of him. Jack dropped the money on the bar as he stepped off the stool and made his way through the crowded club, drinks in hand.

Victor studied the private investigator as he closed in on him. He looked totally out of place in the club. Their eyes locked and Victor made a simple hand movement of welcome and pulled a fake, pained smile.  “Jack, Jack. Welcome, welcome. Long time no see, my friend.”

Jack placed the drinks on the crisp white tablecloth next to a garish centrepiece. Some kind of bird, he thought. Their eyes never left each other’s. Neither trusted the other, but Jack knew how to play the game; small talk then down to business.

“Well then, Jack. What brings you to my club?”

“
Your
club?” The question hung in the air like a bad smell. He never got a reply. Jack removed his hat and placed it on the table. “Your note. The job? I need details. Anything you’ve got.”

Renetti smiled. “So you’re interested then?”

“
If
I’m the only one looking and the money’s right.”

Victor's smile grew. He downed his whiskey in one. “The job is yours, and the payment is ten thousand. I want Eddy Kovakx dead and proof of it brought here.”

Staying in the P.I job meant you eventually had to do something dirty, like become some club owner’s hired killer.

Victor ran his fat hands through his slicked back hair and smoothed his pencil moustache. “My business partners associates, found the getaway car at the bottom of a cliff a few miles outside the city, but there was no body. He’s alive and hiding.” He handed Jack a map with directions to the crash site, and the keys to a car, a British Jaguar XK 120. More flash than Jack was used to, but it was a perk when a client had connections.

As Jack went to stand, Victor grabbed his arm. “I want this sorting, Jack, and soon. The cops don’t have a clue, so you make sure it stays that way. This remains in-house, understand?”

Jack gave no reply. He gathered his hat and headed for the exit. The car was in the back alley behind the club.

Malone sat in the car and checked the glove box. He found a cigar and two hundred dollars, with a note to say it was a small token of thanks. He counted it then put it back. He studied the map. The whiskey on his lips made him wish he had downed another. This was going to be tough. There wasn’t much to go on.

Starting the engine, Jack joined the early evening traffic, heading out of Central City. Victor hadn’t discussed the stolen money but Jack knew it was the real hunt, worth a lot more than the paltry ten grand Victor was offering. Not Eddy, or anybody else, was going to stand in his way.

Jack speeded out of Central City and on to country lanes. Darkness fell and the velvet night closed in around him. In the early hours of the morning, he pulled into a gas station. Daylight cracked through the sky as a new dawn beckoned. He sat in the small diner next to the gas station, reading a newspaper someone had left behind. It was full of news about the rebuilding of factories in Europe during the two years since the war ended. He ordered a breakfast of Canadian bacon, the best in his opinion, two eggs sunny side up and coffee. It was the perfect start to the case and would keep him going for the trip ahead.

Catching, the eye of the young waitress Jack thought he’d try his luck. “Hey darling, you look swell. What’s a dame like you doing here and not shining on the big screen?”

Jack’s first volley of charm didn’t help his cause. Was he that rusty at the dating game? She carried on serving coffee to a trucker near a jukebox. Downing the dregs of his coffee, he wiped his chin with his sleeve and whispered, “Have you any last wish?”

Walking back from the jukebox, the waitress whispered, “I’d like to see Paris before I die… but Philadelphia will do.”

Looking up from the table, Jack smiled. “My little Chickadee, good film doll.”

The waitress laughed, realizing the P.I had no material of his own and preferred to spout movie quotes, fired a quote back in return. “Mister, what does it mean when a man crashes out?”

Jack leaned forward, giving the dame a longing look. “Crashes out? That’s a funny question for you to ask now. You going steady, hun?” Jack asked as she wrote her number on her napkin. He’d call this Sandy when everything was sorted.

A little while later he was off again, racing into the dawn and his first clue.

It wasn’t long before he came to the lonely road with the broken stone wall. Beyond it was a steep drop. At the bottom of the cliff lay the remains of a blue Lincoln coupe. Luckily it hadn’t blown up, so finding some clues would be possible. He parked off the road and returned to the hole in the wall. Working his way along a crumbling ledge, Jack found some good solid handholds that led him down to the wreck of the car below.

By the time Jack had reached the bottom of the cliff an hour had passed. He was sweating and tired. His hip was screaming, thanks to a shrapnel blast courtesy of Uncle Sam, plus the fact he was no mountain climber or movie hero. The damage the booze had done over the years wasn’t doing him any favors either. He cut through a small bush, and then wiped his shoe on a rock after stepping in lord knows what. Finally reaching the car, he tried the door with little joy, so decided to go in through the rear window instead, crawling into the upturned and confined space.

The front of the car had crumbled in on itself. Jack got to work as best he could, scanning the inside. Dark red patches of blood smeared the back of the driver’s seat and the steering wheel, but what caught his attention was the bloody handprints on the driver’s door. Eddy Kovakx had somehow survived and was on the move.

The driver was wounded, and from the amount of blood in the car, Jack guessed he was in a bad way. He had either been shot in the heist or the crash had done it to him. Either way, he had got out. Bleeding this badly, Jack figured he couldn’t have gone far. It might be worth checking the nearest hospitals and clinics? After looking at the wreck again, he thought better of it.

The climb up the cliff took longer than the exhausting descent, but finally, the P.I scrambled up the last rocky outcrop and through the broken wall. By sheer chance and dumb luck, Jack’s hand landed on a rock stained with blood. Deep, uneven, muddy footprints led on to the road, pointing the way like an arrow. Losing that much blood, he couldn’t have gone far.

The remains of blood and the odd footprint led Jack to an old gas station set back off the road. Pushing open the rickety door, Jack walked in. Dust rose, filling the room and dancing in the sunlight. The room was small, so finding the bloodstained clothes and bandages was easy. Bandages meant one thing… he’d had help. That made the game of cat and mouse a lot harder.

He searched outside and discovered two sets of tyre tracks leading up to the road, his and one other. That gave Jack a direction if nothing else.

The road was quiet, with only the occasional farmhouse on it, one of which was nothing more than a shell. It didn’t fill him with much confidence of anything good happening that night. But a little way on, at a fork in the road, a battered sign for a train station spurred Jack on. Only one car sat in the station’s gravel car park. Jack couldn’t look inside, other than the views from the windows. But there was blood droplets on the seat. He also noted the cars tire tracks, were similar to those seen in the alley. This is the car he thought. He glanced around. This station would be the nearest and quickest way out of the area for a wounded man and his accomplice.

Malone walked into the small ticket office. The old man in the shabby conductor’s grayish uniform gave Jack a look that made him feel a bit off. Maybe it was his age, he didn’t know, but the conductor’s beady glare made him uneasy.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could help?”

Two bristled eyebrows raised and locked on to Jack. “If you want the train you’re out of luck, sonny, it left twenty minutes ago.”

“Actually, it’s about that car,’ he said, gesturing towards the car park. ‘Can you tell me about it?”

The bristled eyebrows rose higher. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s against regulations to give out privileged information like that.”

“I understand that. Okay, not a problem. Say, I don’t suppose you have a map I could buy? I'm not from around these parts.”

The man picked up a road map booklet and popped it through the cashiers hatch. “That’ll be five dollars. Where you heading anyway?”

Taking out his wallet, Jack smiled. “Just seeing where the wind will take me. Sorry about bothering you, it’s just that I’m a car collector. Five dollars you say?”

Jack took the map and made a little show of looking it over so the conductor saw, then slipped a crisp one hundred dollar bill inside. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind about the map, so what can you tell me about the car?”

He lit a cigarette and waited for the old man’s cogs to turn. He looked like he was knocking on a hundred. Jack was surprised the rail company kept him on, but who was he to say who could do the job. There were times when he thought he was too old to be a P.I. It was more of a young man’s game.

The man licked his lips, slipped the note in his trouser pocket, and told Jack everything. Two people had arrived in that car; a man and woman. The woman was young, posh looking, and pretty. The man pale—ill-looking. They had parked up outside and bought tickets for Chicago.

Jack did the same. He was now hot on their trail. 

* * *

Eddy’s head was all over the place, his thoughts were full of San Francisco and the life he would create for himself and Kim. For the first time in his life, he could allow himself to dream big.

Eddy and Kim sat in Paddy’s old Ford pickup, with Kim trying to avoid sitting on the various grease stains marring the old seats. Eddy was getting impatient. He wanted to put the gym, the city, and what had happened to them behind him. Paddy was just about to lock up when he said, “Just one more job to do. Back in a tic.”

He went back into the hall. Kim turned and looked at Eddy’s face. His eye had gone an odd shade of blue and purple and his nose was battered. “You should have ducked that one, baby.”

Eddy winced. His jaw was a painful reminder of the left hook that had finished him off. “Yeah, maybe next time I will.”

She hugged him tight. Having gotten to know Eddy quite well, she knew how much he hated to lose. His pride had been dented. “Don’t sweat it, Eddy. We are on our way. San Francisco is just ahead of us.”

He smiled. “Yeah, not long now, baby-doll,” he whispered.

Back in the small back office, Paddy perched on the corner of his desk. Checking nobody was about, he picked up the phone and dialed the operator. “I’d like Central City 487302. The Lost Angel Club. Mr. Victor Renetti, please.”

After a small delay and a crackle, the line was picked up. Clearing his throat Paddy spoke. “Um… Mr. Renetti? Hello, my name’s O’Neal. Paddy O’Neal. We met in Central City at the Johnson fight last April. You and Mr. Mike came to see my fighters… did a little betting.” There was a slight pause before the promoter carried on. “Yes sir, I’m fine, thank you. Business is good. Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, I think we can do a little business again. I heard you were looking for Eddy Kovakx…”

The voice on the other end coughed in silent confirmation. “It’s just… I have information on his location and the like, but it comes at a price…”

Renetti listened as Paddy assured him the information was both new and reliable. He offered Paddy five thousand dollars. Paddy saw dollar signs and tried pushing his luck a little further. “Actually, Mr. Renetti, I was thinking more like ten thousand... No, Sir… you’re right. It’s more than I deserve. Five thousand will be fine.”