Taco Noir (16 page)

“Judging from that gut hanging over your expensive belt, you don’t miss too many meals yourself, Ace.”

              I noticed that I was now the only one in the room wearing a grin, and it didn’t seem like a healthy thing to do. One of Ace’s men, a short guy in pinstripes on Ace’s left, sprinted towards me, his hand digging deep into his jacket. Ace held up a hand and the gunsel stopped dead in his tracks, but the move only helped reinforce the math for me. There were five guns in the room to my one, and that was assuming that Ace himself wasn’t packing, which is always a fatal assumption.

              “My associate tells me that you are here because you have some information on my... vacation last year,” said Ace, with the practiced civility of someone discussing a regatta instead of murder.

              “I do seem to recall something to that effect,” I said, wearing what I hoped was my best poker face. The stakes were high, and if I misplayed this hand, it might just be...well, aces.

              “And what is it that you think you know?”

              “I know the whole dirty business about Niles the Nose. I know where, when, and who helped him take a midnight ocean swim and I can prove it.” I let that hang in the air, the thunderous quiet more nerve-wracking than the sound of a cocking trigger. “But I don’t have to know anything. Not if you could find your way to doing me a small favor.”

              Thorndike mulled this over as if he were chewing on a tough steak before he answered. “It’s a bit early in our relationship to be asking for favors, ain’t it? Besides, what’s to keep me from making sure that you never speak of anything ever again?”

              “What’s keeping you is that, contrary to belief, I’m not so stupid as to walk around with the goods on me. If anything happens to me, then the right people will know all about your business. People who aren’t in your pocket.”

              Thorndike closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to reflect on the absurdity that certain individuals existed that were not in his pocket. As he reflected, the muscle behind him remained motionless, even pinstripes, like dogs waiting for the attack order. That didn’t stop the kid from trying to bore a hole in my head through sheer willpower. In contrast, Ace maintained the serenity of a Buddhist priest. He slowly opened his eyes and picked up the crystal tumbler on his desk. It held a few fingers of expensive liquid, and Thorndike gazed into the booze as if it held my future, which in a sense it did. He knocked back the glass, draining the alcohol, and turned his attention to me.

              “What exactly is this ‘favor’ that you want?” The tone of his voice conveyed the fact that Ace Thorndike didn’t make his way in the world by granting favors, and this was not a practice that he would find habit-forming.

              “I want you to leave Hughie Cranski alone,” I told Ace.

              “Who?”

              I sighed, not wanting to actually say the words out loud.

              “I want you to forget about Hugh W. Cranston.” The blank looks spread though the gallery. “He’s that scrawny little pulp writer that lives on the East Side who thinks he’s the second coming of Edward R. Murrow.”

              The silence held in the room for almost two seconds, before it erupted into thunderous, boisterous laughter.

              “Are you serious?” asked Ace, once he was able to regain the power of speech. The guys behind him, pinstripes included, were doubled over with laughter.

              “Do you hear that?” Ace called over his shoulder. “Tough guy here don’t want us to lean on the comic book man.” Once again laughter ensued, and I was the straight man in a vaudeville routine.

              “I take it that ‘Li’l Abner’ is still fair game, right boss?” More hilarity ensued, and I found myself wishing for that bullet to come sooner rather than later.

              “Think of him what you will, but he’s looking into whatever you’ve got going on Channel Street. I’ll talk him out of this, but I want your word that he’ll be healthy while I do.”

              The laughter died as the goons looked over at their boss. Pinstripes bent forward and whispered into Ace’s ear.

              “Boss, Channel Street?”

              Ace Thorndike stood and offered me his hand.

              “I think we have a deal,” he said, and we shook. The goons behind him stood and watched as if a miracle had taken place. One had, but not in the way I thought. Ace held onto my hand.

              “I was going to tell Alberto here to cut you up and feed you to the fish, but this is priceless.”

              “How do you mean?” I asked, the brief warmth of hope I felt in my chest vanished, replaced by the more common feeling of dread.

              “I’ll let the kid be, and I expect to never hear the name ‘Niles the Nose’ for the rest of my life.”

              “And me?” I asked, my voice breaking like a fourteen year old’s.

              “You?” he said, letting go of my hand and throwing his arms wide open. A smile spread out over the mobster’s face, and he looked as lethal as a toddler. “Boys, do you know what I do on Channel Street every Thursday morning before I come to the office?” he asked. The goons exchanged quizzical glances but kept silent.

              “I pick up my laundry!”

              The laughter from before was nothing compared to the guffaws that rained down as Ace waved me away. Ace laughed that he was going to have to share this with Boom Boom Bianchi on the East Side.

              “Priceless,” he said in way of farewell. “Simply priceless.”

              I made my way back to the elevator and rode down with the monolith who worked the lever. I even heard chuckles come from somewhere down in his dark, tiny little soul.

              “Laundry,” he muttered. “That’s a good one.”

              Hughie was in the clear with City Hall. No one from Ace Thorndike’s mob would harm a hair on the kid’s head.

              I, however, couldn’t wait to kill him.

              “Hughie, you are one dead son of a…” I said as I threw open his apartment door. I was immediately greeted by the business end of two gun barrels introducing themselves. In my experience, I’ve found that the only sensible thing to do in these situations is to remain very still and try not to have an accident. I mentally patted myself on the back for my success. The palookas with the hardware spun me around and pressed my face into the back of Hughie’s door. Hands frisked me, relieving me of my favorite pistol, my wallet, and the slight shreds of dignity that I still possessed.

              “Why, this isn’t mom’s apartment?” I stuttered. “I must have made some silly mistake.”

              “Button it, gumshoe,” said the man with a gun in my back. He grabbed my shoulder and tugged me around, showing me the faces of the men who were leading this dance. Both men wore military hair-cuts, dark suits, and very little personality. They flashed badges at me, but their whole demeanor already spelled out who they were.

              Feds.

              “What business do you have with Hugh W. Cranston,” asked flat top, his gun still getting acquainted with my belly.

              “We’re old pals,” I said. “We meet once a week for crocheting.”

              “Agent Cranston isn’t available for crocheting anymore, funny guy,” said the other flat top, tossing my wallet back to me and leaving my gun on the table behind him. “He’s helping out Uncle Sam regarding important business on criminal activity in the city and knitting isn’t on the schedule”             

              I looked around Hughie’s apartment and found that most of his belongings were boxed up or gone, and the drawers in his dresser that held his clothes were open and empty.

              “What have you done with Hughie,” I asked, before the monkey-wrench that the Feds had tossed into my brain caused my head to explode.

              “Wait! Did you say ‘Agent Cranston’?”

              The two Feds exchanged looks and then fixed their cold stare on me.

              “No, we didn’t,” senior flat top said as they each picked up a box and holstered their guns. They walked to the door and started to leave, neither smiling nor turning away from me as they did. “No one mentioned Hugh Cranston, and you never heard of him. Do we make ourselves clear, gumshoe?”

              “Right,” I said. “Uncle Sam knows best.” I shot them a quick salute as they sent a couple sneers my way and shut the door behind them, leaving me in a disheveled apartment and a befuddled state of mind.

              I wandered into the kitchen, hoping that the Feds left the booze, and caught the only break that I’d had in the last ten thousand years. I filled a dirty tumbler, drained it, and filled it up once more. On the stove, the remnants of Ma Cranski’s Mulligan Stew bubbled away, and it smelled just as good as before. I found a bowl, took out a spoon, and turned off the stove.

              I sat down on the sofa and took care of the booze, which seemed the more pressing matter, before I finished the stew. I felt better not being the only stooge falling for Hughie Cranski’s wild tales, but it worried me a bit that the other stooge was my government. I shook my head, which I would do for the rest of my life when Agent Hugh W. Cranston crossed my mind, and told myself that Hughie was probably very happy with his government-issue badge and gun.

              I only hoped he didn’t shoot himself on the first day at work.

Ma Cranski’s Mulligan Stew

¼ cup of all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon pepper

1 pound lamb stew meat, cubed

1 tablespoon vegetable oil

2 ½ cups of beef broth

1 cup water

2 bay leaves

2 cloves garlic

½ teaspoon dried oregano

½ teaspoon dried basil

½ teaspoon dried dill

3 carrots, cut into 1-inch slices

3 potatoes, peeled and cubed

2 celery stalks, peeled and diced

1 onion, roughly chopped

1 table cornstarch

1 tablespoon minced fresh parsley

• In a large bowl, toss the lamb and bounce it around for a while with the flour, until well-coated. Add the oil to a Dutch oven and brown the lamb.
  

• Add the broth, water, and spices. Simmer the meat until it is tender, about an hour and a half. Toss in the carrots, potatoes, celery, and onion and cover, simmering the whole megillah for about 45 more minutes, or until the veggies are tender.
  

• In a spare bowl, take the cornstarch and combine it with about two tablespoons of the stew broth. Mix it well and pour it back into the stew, stirring the whole mess up.
  

• Bring the stew up to a boil, remove it from the heat, and take out the bay leaf. Let it sit for about five minutes, dole it out in a bowl, and serve with the parsley.
  

                  Serves 4-6 G-Men

THE CASE OF THE ABSENT EXHIBIT

When the Ghanouj hits the fan

There’s something a little off-putting about the Museum of Natural History. I can’t seem to put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s the gryphon statues at the front gate, or maybe the fact that they keep the lights so dim that it looks as if the stuffed bears have a glint of hunger in their eyes. Maybe it’s the smell of old mummy in the joint, it doesn’t make any difference. All I know is that I don’t care for the place. When I got a call from Patterson March, an old army crony, to drop by ASAP and help him out, I wasn’t too keen for a number of reasons. March was a dandy of sorts, one I never really cared for, but when someone you served with asks a favor, you do it, personality or lack of one be damned. I’d just have to breathe through my mouth for a while.

              The museum was all abuzz with activity, in contrast to the stoic exterior of the place. From what I gathered from the posters and banners strung over the dinosaur bones in the main hall, they were premièring a Middle Eastern find of no small significance that night. King Whatizface the All-Powerful from the Sacred Valley of Wherever, I supposed. From the white coats, cleaners, construction men and caterers running around the joint, it looked to me as if old kingie was still in charge. I looked around for March, hoping I could recognize the old bloke after all this time, when one of the guards came over and put a heavy hand on my shoulder.

              “The museum is closed,” he said, in the same tone you reserved for unwanted solicitors who knocked on your door to ask about your religious affiliations.

              “Careful peaches,” I told the tall watchman as he gave me a firm but clear shove towards the gryphons out front. “That’s my gun shoulder you got your mitts on.”

              This gave Bluto some pause, and before he could regale me with more stunning conversation, I heard my name called from inside the Egyptian tomb to my left.

              Lesser men would have run in terror.

              “Patterson March?” I asked, directing my attention into the darkness. Slowly a figure emerged from the pitch, and much to my surprise, Patterson March hadn’t changed a bit in years.

              March had the lean, athletic build of a tennis player, and the healthy complexion of a man who worked out, ate right, and spent plenty of time outdoors. I resisted the urge to pistol whip him and stuck out my hand. His smile wavered for a second. I suppose the internal debate raged as how to respond when the help want to shake hands. He once again flashed the pearly whites and took my offered mitt. He gave it a few pumps and I managed to get my heart rate down before we spoke.