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The victim was on his knees, spitting up blood and picking a tooth from the street. His suit was a mess from where they had pulled the coat down halfway to immobilize his arms as they assaulted him. Keeping the .45 on the thugs, I reached out my other hand and hefted him up. A grateful, if bruised and bloody, face caught the light.
“Thanks, Geno, you saved my life.”
Frenchy Navarre.
I left him to put himself together as best he could and searched the crew. Thug One carried a .25 caliber Baby Browning and a switchblade. Thug Two was armed with a “broomhandle” Mauser—I hadn’t seen one of these since the war. The third goon was underdressed—only a pair of brass knuckles. Thug Four had a snubnosed Colt Detective .38 in a shoulder rig. It was amazing they hadn’t decided to turn all this firepower on me. I might have been able to put them all down, but who knows? I slid the guns into my waistband and the knife and knucks in my pocket.
“Keep your damned hands up and faces forward,” I commanded. “At this range, I’ll blow your guts all over the pavement.” That was true, but I took two steps back. I didn’t want one of these toughs to get the idea he could make a clever move behind him and disarm me.
I said, “Guess what, smart guys. You assaulted a police officer. You’re going to Florence for a nice, long bit.”
Frenchy touched my elbow. “Let ’em go, Geno. It’s a long story, but I don’t want ’em arrested.”
I whispered out of the side of my mouth, “Frenchy, these guys almost killed you.”
“I know,” he wheezed. “But let ’em go. I’ll explain later.”
That would be interest
ing to hear, but I already knew the truth. This was payback from Greenbaum for Zoogie Boogie, or maybe from Cyrus Cleveland, and I couldn’t say I was sorry he was getting it.
I holstered my pistol and ordered them to turn around. “Get lost.”
“What about my gun?” This came from the first one, who was about my height, swarthy complexion, eyes that showed an intellect somewhere around that of a mule.
I patted his cheek. “You’re lucky to not be going to jail, sweetheart. Don’t push it.”
They walked east on Madison, looking back. I expected the worst, that they would make a run at me, but soon all four were gone. Frenchy was bent over, spitting up more blood.
“I need a drink,” he said. “I need to get my car…” He collapsed again, and I lifted him upright, grabbing his mangled fedora.
“First you’re going to the hospital. No argument.”
I folded him into the Ford and drove to St. Joseph’s at Fourth and Polk streets, the closest hospital. Before they ushered me into the waiting area, I assessed his injuries: One eye already turning purple, scrapes on his face, nasty hit to the jaw, bruised ribs. He gave me his badge, gun, sap, handcuffs, and wallet. I explained that he was a police officer.
“Geno.” He grabbed my sleeve. “Please keep this between us. If McGrath finds out, I’ll be writing parking tickets and directing traffic in uniform for the rest of my career.”
Considering this was the man who slit Zoogie Boogie’s throat, I felt surprisingly compassionate. “It stays between us,” I said. “But who were those goons?”
“Gambling debt…”
And a nun pushed me out of the room.
While the doctors were working on Frenchy, I went outside for a cigarette and unburdened my confiscated weapons into the car. Bing Crosby was singing “Shadow Waltz” from a phonograph playing in a house across the street. Victoria would be well on her way to Yuma by now, with a morning arrival in Los Angeles. I wish I’d offered to go with her.
Hefting Frenchy’s blackjack, I wondered if it was what killed Carrie. I dug through his wallet. He was carrying two C-notes in addition to ones and fives. Not bad for an honest public servant—or somebody who got busted up over unpaid gambling debts. Among notes and cards, I found one from Summer Tours. On the back side, Carrie’s handwriting said, “Leonce, Big Cat scares me. C.”
I slid it back into place. Frenchy was definitely not Big Cat. I wondered again who was.
Two hours later, Frenchy was as patched up as possible. They wanted to admit him for fear of internal bleeding, but he was having none of that. He had three broken ribs, had lost two teeth, and came close to having a fractured cheek and ruptured spleen. He was staggering from a dose of morphine but still winced in pain as I slid his holster and other cop gear back on and put him in the passenger seat for the ride home.
“What the hell am I going to tell my wife?” he slurred as we arrived.
“Lie well. You’re a cop and got in a fight. Say you look a lot better than the toughs you took down tonight and threw in jail.”
He started to laugh but this turned into a moan from his broken ribs as he wrapped his arms around his battered middle.
“You ever been in love, Geno?”
