Missing Amanda
MISSING AMANDA
DUANE LINDSAY
Copyright 2016
Duane Lindsay
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
To Traci, the inspiration for everything
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1: August 19, 1958—Chicago
Chapter 2: Big Plans for the new Mayor
Chapter 3: I gave him sufficient reason not to
Chapter 4: If only this guy was that guy
Chapter 5: Good of you to stop by
Chapter 6: Along. With me. You gotta come.
Chapter 7: Two Cops...Three Stooges
Chapter 8: Gotta love Chicago politics, huh?
Chapter 9: I only read it for the articles
Chapter 10: Can’t say the day was wasted
Chapter 11: What kind of freak was that?
Chapter 12: She’s in 6-C
Chapter 13: Popcorn would be good
Chapter 14: I am a crook
Chapter 15: How long you last is up to you
Chapter 16: This is about a gang war, isn’t it?
Chapter 17: How about a lot of money?
Chapter 18: First, we need a place to hide
Chapter 19: “He’s going to make a political contribution...”
Chapter 20: How about McDonald’s?
Chapter 21: I’d like to see Braddock’s face about now
Chapter 22: We buy a really big television
Chapter 23: Of course, we’ll need a forger
Chapter 24: Somehow, we’ll need to get the police involved
Chapter 25: We’ll have to break in a lot of places
Chapter 26: We’re gonna need some help
Chapter 27: Cassidy will deliver the Magnavox
Chapter 28: I’ll need some time to plan
Chapter 29: Lou’s going to the circus
Chapter 30: We’ll need a Blues Man
Chapter 31: I suppose you’re all wondering?
Chapter 32: We steal from the rich
Chapter 33: And we keep it
Chapter 34: Then we betray everybody else
Chapter 35: Let the war begin
Chapter 36: Now it’s a battle of attrition
Chapter 37: Inevitably the pressure will build
Chapter 38: Now we make it worse
Chapter 39: And hope they fall apart before we do
Chapter 40: With luck, we’ll get what we need
Chapter 41: Before they kill us all
Chapter 42: It’s almost over
Chapter 43: End game
Chapter 44: Into the lion’s den
Chapter 45: But wait! There’s more
SERIOUSLY?—The Sequel to Missing Amanda
TAP DOUBT—A thriller
Chapter 1
August 19, 1958—Chicago
“Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go...”
Paul E. Smalls, in a two-room flat near Bryn Mawr, frantically stuffed clothes into a battered leather grip. His tan cotton pants were dirty, the white wife-beater tee stained and his brown shoes were scuffed. Everything else went into the case or onto the floor.
He paused at a picture of his sister, tossed it in the bag, scanned the room and decided enough was enough. He threw on a shirt, tails out and unbuttoned, and slapped a fedora over his thinning hair, closed the bag and ran for the door.
The mob...Christ. He took the stairs two at a time. Chased by the damn mob. A choked sound came from his throat as he careened off the wall, almost lost his balance, and legged it down the last flight of stairs at the back of the building. He looked both ways and dashed for the black Ford Fairlane convertible across the alley.
He almost made it. The case was in the back seat, his keys in his hand and his mind already on the road when something heavy hit him between the shoulder blades. He went down like a wet sack of cement, his back screaming in agony.
Feet came into view, black tie-ons, argyle socks, brown cuffs above them. Paul E. cringed and tried to scuttle backwards, crablike but hands lifted him, not gently, to his feet.
Paul E. felt the harsh acid of rising bile. So close, so goddam close. If only he’d rabbited sooner.
The guy shook him, making Paul E’s head roll around. From nearly closed eyelids, Paul E. saw the goons’ hard expression and knew there’d be no mercy here. The ox was low grade muscle, paid to beat people and bring them to his masters.
The mob. Fear like he’d never known went through his gut. The ox worked for Cermak. Guzman Cermak—Cermak the Surgeon. Stories of Sadism and torture attributed to the crime boss were legendary and, if even half were true, Paul E. was in for a world of hurt.
Cermak. They say he carried a scalpel in his lapel pocket...
The ox shook him again and Paul E. pretended to be out, thinking of what he could do. He could scream but who’d listen? He could fight but why bother? It would be like hitting the brick wall behind him.
But...the ox didn’t have a gun, or didn’t have it out, which was the same thing. In Paul E.’s world, if you don’t pull a gun, you didn’t intend to use one. So that was one good thing. And here was another: the guy was alone.
Probably didn’t expect trouble from a private dick with a camera. Good. There might be a chance after all. He willed himself to stop shaking.
He groaned again, theatrically, making it sound worse than it felt. His right shoulder where the ox had hit him was numb and useless, maybe broken, but his left felt okay. If he did this right, he might live to see Wisconsin.
He waved a hand feebly—no acting there—as if to ward off the goon.
Ox laughed like a not particularly bright mule, but the vicelike grip on his arm lessened. Paul E. slumped against the Fairlane, across the open window and slid down as if falling inside. His left hand scrabbled for his gun...
Ox said, “Hey! Get up,” like a junk yard dog who could talk. He grabbed Paul E. by the shirt and yanked, expecting dead weight. The unbuttoned shirt ripped off, Paul E. came up fast and he swatted at the horn in the center of the steering wheel and the Ford made a loud blasting noise. Paul E. spun around with a silver .22 and pointed it straight into the guy’s startled face.
The ox jumped back suddenly, like he’d been stung by a bee, the alley exploded with sound and a bullet shattered the Ford’s side mirror. There was another one.
Paul E. reacted with the Army training from the war not that many years ago. He pulled the trigger twice and the little .22 cracked in the alley. The ox went down bellowing in pain and Paul E. swiveled left and dropped to his knees, feeling a bullet flash over his head even as he heard the blast.
Five more times he fired his pistol, emptying it. A shadow teetered over a garbage can and fell into a shallow puddle of muck. Just like at the target range. Paul E. blessed his foresight in keeping up with his training. Where would a private dick be without it?
Dead, that’s where. He tossed the empty gun into the back seat of the car, opened the door and cursed. He couldn’t just leave the dead guys, not with his apartment just across the alley and him about to vanish. The cops would put that together like lightni
ng and the search would be on.
No, gotta do something else. With his left arm useless, the chore would be difficult but not impossible. He pushed and pulled and dragged the nearest thug to the car, thanking Ford for the size of the trunk. He fit neatly, just above the spare.
Paul E. was surprised to see him still breathing. Not for long. Paul E. went back to the trunk, took the gun off the body, a nice silver plated .38, went back and shot Ox twice in the chest. The gun jumped in his hand and he flinched at the sound.
Ox’s body took a bit more effort to drag to the car but soon it was slouched in the back seat like he was sleeping off a drunk. Paul E. pulled the ragtop into place, lugged it down with some difficulty, rolled up the window and got in. He drove carefully down the alley, made a left on 54th and hightailed it to the safety of Baraboo.
Hey Rube, he thought. I’m coming.
*
Lou Fleener was admiring the White Sox coverage in the Tribune when a shadow darkened the frosted glass of his office window. The Sox were in second place, the Cubs in third. Louis
Aparicio was hotter than the August weather. Was there a God? Could it happen?
“It’s open,” Lou called to the shave-and-a-haircut rapping at the door. He set down the paper and watched with interest as a big guy in a new Poplin suit pushed the door open and shoved it closed with his hip. He shuffled across the dusty green and white checkered linoleum and sat in the guest chair. If an elephant wore summer weight cotton, it would look like this guy. The chair creaked.
“You Fleener?”
“What it says on the door.” ‘Lou Fleener—Private Eye –’ backwards in gold letters, painted on by a cousin of Monk’s.
“Smart guy,” said the suit.
Lou shrugged modestly. “It’s true.” He put his feet on the scuffed wooden desk and leaned back. “What can I do for you?”
“Word on the street is you’re good.”
“Word’s right.”
The guy cocked a jaw and bit his lip. His hair was cut short like a Marine, flat on top and razored on the sides. He didn’t look like a customer, but what does a customer look like? There had been so few lately that Lou lacked perspective.
The suit fidgeted, took a pack of Camels from an inside pocket and lit one from a gold Zippo. Lou pulled an ashtray from the drawer and slid it across the desk, a thick chunky glass souvenir from the Palmer Hotel. The bottom said, ‘A handy place to stay,’ in red ink under a pair of black dice. Classy.
Lou studied the visitor for a moment as the smoke filled the small room. Nice suit, good cut, one of those new polyester fabrics, it covered the muscles as if tailored and concealed the gun under the left armpit. The guy was a blond with the features of a body builder gone soft.
“Hey,” he said. “I know you!”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah. Yeah I do.” Lou snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, it’ll come to me.”
“It doesn’t matter who I am. I’ve been sent –”
“Got it! You’re Milt Stiltmeyer.” Lou slapped the desk in delight. “I’m right, right? Milt the Stilt?” Lou sounded like a fan at Comiskey Park meeting Minnie Minoso. In a moment, he’d be asking for an autograph.
The guy made hands down motions, like quieting a rowdy dog. “It don’t matter who I am,” he said. “I’m here to bring you to—”
But Lou didn’t balk. “I know I’m right. Millie the Killer they call you. ’Cause you killed that guy, what was his name? Stubbs, right, while you were wearing a dress.
Milt looked pained.
“Sure,” Lou said, “I know all about you.”
Now Milt looked concerned. “How?”
“I read about you. In the Trib. I got a scrapbook,”
“The hell you mean, a scrapbook? You got a scrapbook of thugs?”
“Sure.” Lou didn’t mention that it was Monk’s idea and that he’d been against it.
Monk said, “If you’re going to do this—be a private eye –the least you can do is be prepared. You’ve got to study, know your enemies.”
Monk talked like that, like he graduated from Loyola or someplace. “It could save your life.” Then he’d gone off to his used book store down on Clark street and came back with this huge pile of old musty newspapers and made Lou go through them every Thursday night. The company had been good, the beers cold and Lou had gotten into it, learning the names, nicknames and habits of the current Chicago mob scene.
And now, here was one of them - in person! Lou could hardly contain his glee.
“Bummer of a name, man,” he told Milt with real sympathy, meaning it. “Other guys have cool names like Sammy ‘the icepick’ or ‘Bugsy’ Siegel or ‘Scarface’ Al. But you got saddled with ‘Millie.’” Lou shook his head at the unfairness of the world. “Coffee?”
“The name’s not important,” Milt said through clenched teeth, like he’d been explaining this most of his life, which he probably had. “I’m here to take you to see—”
“Duke Braddock,” Lou finished for him. “You’re muscle for Duke Braddock.”
Milt looked uncomfortable, pursing his lips around the cigarette and puffing like a ’53 Buick Roadmaster. He stared through the growing haze until Lou thought he’d maybe quietly choked to death, but finally he said, “Okay, I work for Duke Braddock. You heard of him?”
“Of course,” said Lou. He sat up straight and his office chair creaked. “Who hasn’t?”
Lou would have heard of Braddock, even without Monk’s research. Bookie, prostitutes, marijuana, some said Coke and the big H—heroin. If it was illegal or killed you, it was probably connected to Braddock.
“The mob guy,” he said simply.
“The businessman,” corrected Milt.
“The businessman then,” Lou agreed, smiling. No way, he decided, was he going to take this case. Duke Braddock was a major player. People who slept with Duke Braddock tended to wake up dead.
Lou wasn’t afraid—hadn’t been for years, since those long months slogging through the Pacific theater—but still. “What’s a guy like Duke want with—”
“A two-bit gumshoe?” Milt grinned like he’d been waiting for the line.
“A private investigator,” Lou said with dignity. His practice was small—just him—and the office wasn’t in the best part of town, and the El did rattle the windows twice an hour, but it was approved by the State of Illinois. Said so right on the license.
The mentioned El chose that moment to rumble by the window, shaking the glass and making conversation impossible. The tracks were second story, just like the office. It kept the rent reasonable and there weren’t that many paying customers anyway.
Mocking, the guy kept talking. Lou could see his lips move. Ha-ha, cute joke. Lou upgraded his opinion of the guy from hired muscle to idiot. No way would he take this case, whatever it was.
When the train noise faded to a muted rumbling, he said, “Whadaya want?”
“The boss wants to see you.”
Lou had maybe seven minutes before the next train so he rushed it. “No,”
“You haven’t heard what he wants.”
“Don’t need to. If Braddock’s involved, it’s dirty.”
Milt actually looked offended. A cheap thug offended for a boss who killed people. Honor among thieves, Lou supposed.
Milt stared around the office; a short trip it was true—you could just about touch both walls if you stretched. “A punk like you, turning down Duke Braddock?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Milt shook his head. “A small time, no account piece of crap like you?”
“Go figure,” agreed Lou. He was enjoying this. Few enough people came here; an actual gangland celebrity was a treat. Since opening the office two years back, Lou hadn’t met anyone more dangerous than the bartender at Billie Goat’s, steamed about the bar bill.
Milt stood up, stretched, his fingers brushing the ceiling. “You gotta come with me.”
He was bigger standin
g than he looked sitting, filling out the suit like a stuffed sausage. Worse, he balanced lightly on his feet and turned sideways like a fighter. A pro for sure.
Lou’s smile became a grin. This was getting better and better.
“Get up.” Milt motioned with the front fingers of his left hand. His right hand was resting on the edge of the desk.
Lou stood. He exhaled through his lips, blowing out all the air, sagging as if resigned and Milt relaxed, seeing the expected obedience.
Lou picked up the ashtray and slammed it down on Milt’s fingers. Cigarette butts flew across the room in a spray of spark and ash.
The glass broke, Milt howled and automatically stuck his injured paw toward his mouth. Lou grabbed the wrist and pushed along with it, making Milt bend back to avoid slapping himself in the face.
Once Milt was off balance Lou shoved him—hard—in the middle of that broad chest and kept pushing. Milt fell back, he hit the door head first and shattered the frosted glass, the lettering gone with the wind. Monk was not going to be pleased, Lou thought, especially since his cousin hadn’t been paid yet.
Milt hung there, half supported by the remains of the door, then shrugged himself up and out. He brushed glass from his coat and glared.
“Tough guy,” he said.
“Yeah,” Lou agreed. He took a gun from his desk drawer and pointed it.
Milt said. “Okay, you’re a tough guy. Maybe that’s why the boss wants to see you.”
He stretched his shoulders around in a small circle and twisted his neck. Muscles bulged and bones cracked loudly. The heat came in through the open window and shimmered between them. The air hung heavy and expectant, as if waiting.
“I’ll send Braddock a bill for the door.”
Milt laughed. “You do that.” He pulled open the door and walked out, heavy shoes crunching on glass shards. He turned back, framed in the space where the window used to be.
“I’ll be back, tough guy. Depend on it. I’ll be back.”
“Great meeting you,” Lou said. “Come back any time.”
Duke Braddock. Hot damn.
*
“Duke Braddock?” Mickey said, obviously impressed.
Mickey Jablonski was a stoolie, a paid informer who’d sell his dog to a butcher for pork chops. He was short and skinny and walked with a limp from a meeting with a dissatisfied customer. The guy had actually tried to chew through Mickey’s leg. Took three of Chicago’s finest to pull him off and cuff him. Of course, the cops hadn’t been in all that much of a hurry—nobody cared much for Mickey.