Everybody Goes to Jimmy's (7 page)

Weiss followed the routine with her that he did with all of his honeys, but he treated her a lot better. First, he set her up in an apartment, but it was a nicer place than he usually got, in a good neighborhood on the east side. He spent most afternoons with her there, and at night they went out. I knew this to be true because Weiss would sometimes bring his young ladies to my place for a quiet bottle of champagne and a dark corner. But he hadn't been in with this Signora Sophia. I'd remember a Sugartits. Apparently she was meant for classier joints than mine. In any case, Jacob was just nuts over her.

Things were clicking along smoothly enough until Jacob decided that they should all take a trip out west. They'd take the Twentieth Century to Chicago and then to Los Angeles, where Signora Sophia could play the ponies.

“He'd never wanted to do anything like that before,” Weeks said, “but then, she wasn't one of his usual showgirls. She was a pretty classy broad.”

“But you called her Sugartits,” the Professor said.

“Not when they could hear us,” he answered, a little offended.

But even when Jacob first brought up the idea, Weeks knew he couldn't go. First, somebody had to stay there and keep the policy racket going. If Jacob and Benny Numbers and Weeks were gone at the same time, the guys who worked for them would steal them blind, and deaf and dumb and any other way they could steal them. Somebody had to stay, and Weeks was the logical guy.

Second, Weeks said, the train would go through Colorado, and he'd been in on the job when Harve Bailey hit the Denver Mint.

“Sure, that was ten years ago, but it's still an open case, and I've been told that the Colorado cops have made the alias I was using then, so I figure it is not a good idea for me to go back.”

At the mention of the Denver Mint job, the Professor perked up even more. “Are you having me on, Mercer?” she said with her back stiff to keep her balance on the chair. “The Denver Mint?”

“Oh, yeah, but the papers got it wrong saying that we robbed the mint. We hit a Federal Reserve Bank truck outside the mint. Old Harve had it worked out pretty good, or so we thought.”

As Weeks spoke, his voice changed and his eyes lost focus, like he was talking to himself, or was lost in the memory, or he'd had too much to drink.

He said that Harve Bailey who was, hands down, the best in the business, knew that they made regular cash transfers from the mint to the Federal Reserve Bank once, maybe twice a week. The bank guys didn't have to take it very far, so they weren't as careful with it as they might have been. They were smart enough not to have a regular schedule. It could be any morning of the week. But instead of using a real armored car to move the cash, they'd jury-rigged a truck with a wire cage around the back, and they only used a few guards. As Weeks described it, Harvey's plan was pretty simple.

The mint was a big building, took up a block or so in downtown Denver, and the main entrance was on a big street, Colfax Avenue. That's where they moved the money.

“There were seven of us … no, nine counting the women,” he said. “We had three cars, a big Buick we were going to use for the job, a backup we had parked close by, and a Ford, our real getaway car that we had in a garage Harve had rented about a mile away.

“The way Harve figured it, the best time to hit them was when the money was being transferred from the mint to the truck. There would only be four guards. There were seven of us in the Buick with rifles, sawed-offs, and pistols. So, we'd drive up beside the truck as the guards came out of the mint, jump out of the Buick, show our guns, scare the hell out of everybody with a lot of shooting, grab the cash, and scram back to our garage.”

Things didn't go according to Harvey's plan.

It started fine. About ten thirty in the morning, as the four guards came out of the mint and crossed the sidewalk, the Buick pulled up and stopped beside the truck. Six guys piled out. A guy named Nick Trainor led the way, and they started shooting. They hit one guard, but he threw the money back into the truck, and an alarm went off in the mint.

“The money spilled out of the bag, and dozens of packages of twenties were loose in the back of the truck. Me and two other guys went for the cash while one of the guards dove under the truck and another ran back toward the doors of the mint. The guards inside started shooting at him! Yeah, they thought the dumb bastard was one of us and blazed away at him.

“The papers said later there were fifty guys shooting at us and I believe it. Christ, for a few minutes there, everybody with a gun was shooting. We got most of the cash.

“I was the last one into the car, and that's when I got hit, I think. Didn't really realize it at the time. Once I was in, Trainor jumped up on the running board and yelled for the driver to step on it. Trainor was shooting back at the mint when we heard one more rifle shot from the building. He got Trainor right in the head.

“We were able to pull him inside and got the hell out of there. I wasn't hit that bad, but we could tell that Trainor wasn't going to make it. We didn't really think about anything until we had the Buick locked up in the garage and tried to patch him up, but there was nothing to be done. I was OK, more or less. Able to drive, anyway. It didn't take long to divide up the money. Harve said that he'd see to it that Flo Trainor got Nick's share.

“Fifteen minutes after we got the Buick into the garage, all of us had scattered. We had to leave Nick, and I always felt kind of bad about that. Couple weeks later, the cops found him sitting there, frozen solid behind the wheel of the Buick in the garage. They said he'd turned blue. Hell of a thing.”

The Professor tried to dig some more details out of him then, and maybe he told her.

I didn't find out because Detective Ellis came up to the table. He looked grim.

Chapter Six

Ellis had a car waiting outside. We drove across town toward the East River and turned south. When I asked where we were going, he just said that I'd see. I didn't ask any more.

He stopped by a dark building on a concrete wharf off South Street somewhere between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges. It was a warehouse with double doors big enough for a truck and a smaller door to the office beside them. Another police car was parked there with two nervous patrolmen standing beside it. What light there was came from the street behind us and a bare bulb over the office door. It was foggy, and neither of the lights did much good.

Ellis asked if the ambulance had been there, and one of the cops said it was on the way. Ellis said, “What about the others?” and the cop said they were inside.

Ellis started walking toward the building. He stopped when he realized I wasn't following. Cops expect to be obeyed. Sometimes they don't get what they want.

“Goddamnit, hurry up.”

“Why?” I said. “What are we doing?”

“Don't try my patience,” he said, getting steamed. “I can make this a hell of a lot harder for you.”

I knew he was right, but I still didn't care for being ordered around. The two uniforms were whispering to each other. They didn't like being there any more than I did. Even though I couldn't see the river from there, I could smell the oily mix of salt, creosote, and decay, and I could hear water lapping at something.

Ellis and I went through the door and into a small office that was divided by a waist-high counter. It was open at one end. A gooseneck lamp on the counter provided the only light, and I couldn't see anything else. Ellis went around the counter and through another door. I followed and we came into a passageway with tall shelves filled with boxes on both sides. I could barely make out rafters high overhead. I saw faint light and heard voices ahead of us.

The passage ended at an open loading dock where a guy was holding up a kerosene lantern and looking at us. There was something on the floor at his feet, and a flashlight was moving in the darkness behind him. I could see the dim squares of windows or skylights up near the ceiling.

Ellis yelled out, “Betcherman!”

What's that damn bastard got to do with this
, I thought.

He was the guy at the back with the flashlight. I could barely make out his voice. “I can't find the fucking lights or the fucking fuse box.”

Ellis stepped closer to the guy with the lantern. “What happened? The lights were on when I left.”

“They went out,” he said. “Just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

He was an old guy with a gray soup-strainer mustache, dark coat, and cap. The night watchman.

“I'm here protecting the scene of the crime while that great lummox blunders around in search of the fuse box and illumination.” He turned and yelled toward the back, “To your left, like I told you!”

The flash moved right, then left. A moment later, the arc lights high above us crackled to life and revealed more rows of shelves and pallets stacked with stuff. The guy who'd tailed me to the Chrysler Building was stretched out on his back on the floor. Somebody had worked him over pretty good. Bloody yawning mouth, broken teeth. The rest of it was worse. I fought against sudden nausea and leaned on my stick.

Betcherman walked over. “Why in the goddamn hell did they put the fucking fuse box under a fucking shelf?” The bastard was still limping from the pop I'd given his knee with the knucks. Good.

He gave me a mean look and said to Ellis, “D'ya get anything out of him yet?”

Ellis said, “Do you know this man?”

I was about to answer yes when I noticed his coat. It was dark brown. And he was wearing a white shirt. It was dirty and stained with blood, but the guy I'd seen before had been wearing a blue work shirt. I was more or less sure about that.

Betcherman hiked up his trousers and stomped closer to me. “Then why—” he said but didn't finish his question. The gunshots cut him off.

A short burst of automatic fire came from behind him, where he'd just been looking for the fuse box. I saw the muzzle flash. The shots echoed in the loading dock. Betcherman grunted when the bullets hit. His knees sagged, but he stayed on his feet, pulled a long-barreled revolver from a belt holster, and turned slowly around. Then there was a second burst and a third. I couldn't tell how many of the bullets hit him. Ellis had his pistol out and moved toward the big cop.

Fast as a rat, the watchman scurried between two sets of tall shelves. I wasn't far behind. Somehow the shots didn't sound like they came from a Thompson and that was the only kind of machine gun I'd ever heard. Not that it mattered. The loud rip of full automatic fire is scary as hell when it's coming at you. I gimped back to the passageway where we'd come in and heard another burst that sounded closer. By then, I had the .38 in my hand but couldn't see anything to shoot at.

Betcherman was still on his feet and firing toward the back of the building. I could see blood on his backup near his shoulder blade. Ellis kneeled behind a pallet stacked with cardboard boxes and fired in the same direction. I still couldn't see anyone else. Betcherman slumped to his knees.

I heard running feet behind me. The two uniformed cops, guns drawn, charged past me and blazed away at nothing in particular. It was deafening.

The shooting couldn't have lasted more than a minute or so, but it's hard to judge time in situations like that. It ended when somebody shot out one of the big arc lights. Sparks rained down, and the watchman yelled that we had to watch out for fire. He ran out, whipped off his coat, and used it to douse a few embers that didn't look dangerous, but, hell, I didn't know what was in the place. He was unfolding a fire hose when the ambulance arrived and everything got even more confusing.

Ellis ordered the ambulance guys to stay back until he and the two young cops had checked the building. Everybody was making noise—everybody but me—until Ellis yelled, “Shut up!”

The place got weirdly quiet then. I noticed the gun smoke hanging in the damp air as heavy as the fog outside. Betcherman was on his back in a widening pool of blood. They loaded him onto a stretcher and took him away.

Ellis and the two uniforms checked the building and found an open door that gave access to a walkway and the wharf, so whoever had been shooting at us could have got away by boat, on foot, or in a car. They found shell casings up on a landing and more at the back near a door. It must have taken Ellis more than an hour to get things straightened away.

By then, the place was filling up with cops and another ambulance crew, and a photographer with a Speed Graphic. He got a shot of them taking Betcherman out on a stretcher, and then he set up the big tripod and got one of the bloody body on the floor. I still had no idea why I'd been invited to the party in the first place. A cop I didn't know said that Ellis wanted me held at his precinct house for questioning. He put me in the backseat of a car along with the night watchman.

On the way over, we introduced ourselves. He was Mr. Malloy, Arch Malloy, and he was worried as all hell that this was going to be the end of his job. He'd got it through his cousin, and it would have been a really good job if he didn't have to kick back almost half his salary to his supervisor and buy tickets every month or so to a longshoremen's ball.

To tell you the truth, I hardly remember what he said then. I was still thinking about the Chatham Hotel.

They put us in an interrogation room and brought us a couple of cups of bad coffee. When Ellis finally joined us, he looked tired and pissed off. I didn't blame him. So was I.

“So,” he said to Malloy, “Betcherman told me that you found the body.”

The old guy had his answer ready before Ellis finished. “I didn't see nothing, and I don't know nothing,” he said automatically, then shook his head and added, “No, I didn't find it. He found it—the cop. He found the guy. I was doing my rounds outside.”

“That's not what Betcherman said.”

“Well, that's what happened. I cover three warehouses all in a row—115, 117, and 120. I go through each of 'em once an hour. I was coming back to 115 when the cop, Betcherman, stopped me at the door and said he'd heard something and found a body inside. He gave me your number and told me to call you.”

I stared at Ellis, and he looked back at me poker-faced. “And why would Betcherman be calling you about a killing on the docks?” I asked him.

“Because Betcherman knew that I know you.”

“So?”

Ellis took out a worn, floppy leather billfold and put it on the table. “He found this in the guy's pocket. Take a look.”

I opened it, and the first thing I saw was a membership card for the United Association of Journeyman Plumbers, Gas Fitters, and Steam Fitters Union, Local 157.

It was made out to one Jimmy Quinn. He also had a New Jersey driver's license and a New York hack license, both made out to Jimmy Quinn. There was no money in the wallet.

“So the guy's got a bunch of phony papers in my name. Big deal.” I tried to sound like it was nothing, but the truth is that it spooked me.

“Why do you think he'd do that?” Ellis asked.

“How the hell should I know? Ask him.”

“He's dead.”

“Ask Betcherman.”

“He's dead, too.”

So, somebody had killed a cop. They'd be taking this one seriously. “Look, Ellis, what is this? Why're you busting my nuts about it? You know I didn't have anything to do with this.”

“Maybe. It's also occurred to me that maybe there's more you're not saying.”

I guess there was plenty more I wasn't saying, but I didn't understand it, and anything I said about Betcherman having been behind my speak would make it that much longer before I could get to the Chatham Hotel.

Finally, Ellis said, “What the hell. You're not going anywhere, I guess. C'mon, I'll take you back to your speak and you can buy me a drink.”

Malloy perked up. “You own a speak?”

Connie and Marie Therese gave me strange looks as we came in, Connie in particular. I guess I had been acting a little strange. Malloy was overcome by the sight and smell of the place. He made a careful study of the big nude behind the bar and the labels on the bottles. I told Frenchy we needed brandy and took Ellis and Malloy to my table. Frenchy brought three glasses and the bottle.

Malloy gestured toward the array of bottles. “If only the contents matched the containers,” he said wistfully.

I told him that they did. We only served the best stuff.

He tasted the brandy, and his eyes widened in delight. “You are a man to be praised and congratulated for bringing an oasis of true spirits into this benighted wasteland that your countrymen have created. An amazing city this is, combining as it does the barbaric and the sublime.”

I asked Frenchy if anything had happened in the last couple of hours that I needed to know about. He cut his eyes at Ellis. I nodded that it was OK.

“The Kraut was back,” he said, “the gent, not the big bastard you busted up.”

“Did he say anything?”

“No, but he kept an eye on everybody who came in, and he made notes in his little book.”

I explained to Ellis that Klapprott was a lawyer who said he wanted to buy me out. Ellis wrote the name down in his own little book. Malloy looked kind of curious when he heard the name, too.

Ellis drank and asked, finally, if I'd seen anything when the shooting started at the warehouse.

“Just the muzzle flash. I didn't see the shooter. Did you?”

He shook his head. “And you've got no idea why the guy would've had counterfeit identification with your name.”

“No, and if you figure it out, let me know.”

“What about you, Malloy? Has the brandy restored your memory?”

He drained his glass. “No, but I have a strong suspicion that another dram might do the trick.”

I told him to help himself and he did. He said, “I didn't see anything tonight, but there have been other nights when my employers, Herr Watts and Herr Schmidt, have told me to stay away from 115. I can't say what goes on there, and I shouldn't even be mentioning this now because you'll question them about it and, for sure, that'll be the shitcan for me.”

Ellis wrote down the names and asked where he could find these guys. Malloy said he had no idea. Check with the man who runs the place during business hours. He was the one who'd told Malloy that the owners came around from time to time, and when they did, he should make himself scarce. Ellis said, “Tell me about Watts and Schmidt.”

“When they show up, they give me a wave and I go to the other buildings. Within the hour, some other guys join them. There will be three or four cars parked in front of the office. When they're gone, I resume my rounds.”

“Anything unusual in the warehouse on those nights?”

“Empty schnapps bottles and beer bottles.” He drank and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, I shouldn't have said that, I've shitcanned myself for sure now. Mr. Quinn … Jimmy, are you needing an experienced night watchman? An honest man, a man who will hold your interests close to his heart? I suspect I shall be available presently, should you care to avail yourself of my services in such a position.”

Yeah, that's the way he talked, and he didn't even need a drink to do it.

After Ellis and Malloy left, I collected my hat, topcoat, stick, and pistol. I told Frenchy to take care of closing up. Connie gave me a strange sort of worried look and asked where I was going.

I told her I had to see an old girlfriend. Sometimes the truth is more convenient than a lie.

I walked over to Broadway and hailed a cab. It's funny. All night, I'd been impatient and wanted people to leave me alone so I could find out if Anna really was back. But now that there was nothing in my way, I almost decided to put it off by walking to the Chatham. I tried to tell myself that I needed time to think it all through, time to decide what course I would take. What crap! I was just scared, as scared as I'd been that night six years before.