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“Easy. Say it was a robbery. Muldoon won’t talk to him, tell him about the cash. So it looks like a robbery. Then you could tell Greenbaum his men might not be safe in Niggertown without your protection, see? It would send a strong message. But you’d be the man on top, willing to help. Chicago would notice, too. I thought it through. This will still work for you.”
“Are you insane, Navarre, or only a jughead? You ‘thought it through’ about as much as a gelding ‘thinks through’ his nuts before they’re cut off. Gus Greenbaum would kill your ass without a second thought, cop or not. Same with me. His people carry Tommy guns, not razors. He’d see through any explanation and retaliate if I even mentioned this to him. You’d better pray you can find a jigaboo you can blame it on and make it real public.”
“All right, all right. I’ll give one a tumble. It won’t be hard.”
“And never say a word about the truth of this—ever! Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you?” This was a roar.
“Yes, Kemper. I’ve got it.”
“You’re no good to me doing foolish things. I have other flatfoots I can use. You’re not my enforcer. I have muscle when and where I need it.” I heard him spit. “You’re nothing special, Navarre. You’ll forfeit a month’s pay from me because of this stunt.”
“Damn, I need that money,” Frenchy pleaded. “I’ve got gambling debts.”
“Then you should have thought before you killed Greenbaum’s man. And if your gambling debts are to some bookie in town, you’re lining Greenbaum’s pockets. You’re stupider than I thought.”
Marley stalked toward his house, and I rose up a few inches for a better look. Frenchy’s face was bright red and scrunched in anger, resembling an overripe tomato. He plainly wanted to say more but kept silent. Then he climbed in his car and drove off trailing dust, fortunately for me, going west away from where I was parked.
I gave it a good ten minutes, then returned to my car and drove downtown.
* * *
I went back trying to figure out Navarre’s scheme. Zoogie Boogie told me he worked for Frenchy, collecting in the colored part of town. Frenchy was Gus Greenbaum’s badged bagman. He was also in Kemper Marley’s pay. To hear Navarre tell it, his thinking, if you wanted to dignify it with that word, was what he said. Kill Zoogie and give Marley a chance to offer protection against shakedowns in Darktown. As if Greenbaum needed protection. Frenchy was a fool, as Kemper had said. Or something else was going on.
For one thing, I couldn’t get past the money left on Zoogie’s person. Beyond slitting the man’s throat, stealing his cabbage would be the priority of making it appear as a robbery, making it look like Greenbaum’s men were unsafe south of the tracks. But the bills and money belt were left behind.
Also, when I braced Zoogie a few days ago on Van Buren, I asked him to find out the lowdown on the street about Carrie Dell’s murder. He was a good snitch, diligent, before he went away for the robbery. Now, on probation, he would have every incentive to stay on my good side and dig. Maybe too deep. Maybe Zoogie was sitting on important information for me while I was in Prescott—and Frenchy found out about it, needed to silence him.
If so, why the trip to Marley and brag about killing Zoogie? My best theory was that Kemper was nagging him for results, same as me, and Frenchy decided to improvise his murder of Zoogie as something do
ne to help Marley get leverage over Greenbaum. Otherwise, why kill one of his own collectors in Darktown?
And I was being watched. That much was clear from the events in Prescott, as well as the car I saw parked in front of my apartment, the occupant helpfully lighting a cigarette to reveal himself. Maybe that man was Frenchy and he leaned on Zoogie to learn what he knew about Carrie, then slit his throat. If all this was so, Navarre was a great actor, playing my friend with the whole “Geno” routine. I knew it sounded like a reach.
Once again, I tried to figure out Marley. He was a major landowner and kept buying more as people were forced by the Depression to sell. With his legal liquor distributorship, he would add exponentially to the wealth he had acquired as a bootlegger. A young man, he was probably one of the richest people in the state. How was that not enough? Yet he wanted the Chicago Outfit to cut him in on the betting wire service. I didn’t get it. With a fraction of his holdings, I’d be happy to retire and marry Victoria. Maybe it wasn’t merely money. It was power he was after. He was no Dwight Heard, who used his fortune to help build a city. But Heard was in the ground, and now we were all supposed to bow to Kemper. Even Barry Goldwater and Harry Rosenzweig seemed intimidated by him. I had his money burning a hole in my safe and wondered what he’d want for it.
The key from Zoogie’s pocket was attached to a worn fob for the Golden West Hotel. It was a two-story building that dated back to territorial days on East Monroe Street downtown, a sleeping porch built over the sidewalk. Now it was dwarfed by the new Professional Building, an art deco tower that housed the still-solvent Valley Bank.
Inside, the desk clerk was on the phone. I held up my key and mouthed, “Any mail?”
He reached behind him into the cubbyhole and handed me an envelope. I took it and quickly headed upstairs before he got off his call and had time to realize I was too well dressed to be the typical guest of the Golden West.
The hallway smelled of desperate men.
I started to slip the key in but pulled out my pistol just in case. Then I opened the door, surveyed an empty room, quietly shut it, and turned the lock.
The space was tiny, barely enough for the single bed, small chest of drawers, and a chair. Through the thin walls, I heard snoring. The guests must have shared a bathroom down the hall. I went through his minimal wardrobe hung in an open closet. Two pairs of pants, four shirts, no shoes. His pants pockets were empty. Next I tossed the place more methodically, looking under the mattress, pulling out drawers, and checking beneath and behind them. Nothing.
Suddenly I heard voices coming up the stairs.
“I was on the phone, but I’m pretty sure he came up a few minutes ago…”
No place to hide.
I went to the window, opened it, and stepped out on the fire escape. It swayed under my weight. I closed the dusty curtains and then gently pulled down the window—but not far enough, for the door opened. I thought about going down, but no. I gingerly took the rusty stairs to the top landing. The roof offered escape, but I bent down and listened.
