Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the noir adventures of Matt Slade, Private Eye. If this is your first time here, you might want to start with Episode 1. Otherwise, enjoy! If you’re enjoying these, let me know in the comments.
Episode 10
I stopped into an all-night general store and hardware, about six blocks from the square. If a man worked the mills, there was not telling what time he'd have to get home and fix what needed fixing. They ran round the clock, so parts of town stayed open round the clock. Me, I didn't need a hammer or nails, at least not that kind. I stepped to the counter. Mr Doering, the old gent who kept the place, was there himself, reading a copy of Black Mask.
"Need a box of .32 Longs."
He reached behind his shoulder without looking, grabbed the yellow pasteboard box, and swung his long arm down to the counter. "That'll be a buck."
"Outrageous what a little bit o' lead's goin' for these days."
"If you need it, you'll pay it."
He was right there. I dropped the bill next to the box and swept it into my coat pocket.
Doering swung his long skinny legs down from their prop on the shelf. He squinted against the smoke from the everpresent Camel in his lips, as he rang the sale on the register. "Luck," was all he said.
"Luck."
Out on the street, I found a phone booth and ducked inside. I didn't wanna draw attention from the bulls, Pat Mahoney'd already held me up long enough for one night. I pulled the little Iver Johnson from my left overcoat pocket, and emptied the cylinder into my pocket. Probably not a great idea to leave the cases lay, so I trousered them. From the other pocket, I pulled the expensive little box, and fed in the long, skinny cylinders, gleaming dully in the street lamp. I hoped I wouldn't need it twice in one night, but hope and a loaded gat will get you further in Philly than hope and winning smile.
Now, to Rittenhouse Square. I had a shady mook to shake, a dame to find, and a murder to solve. Except the murder hadn't happened yet. Well, that could go on the back burner. The dame was more urgent. Dames usually are.
Kavanaugh's joint was only the fourth speak I tried. Pat had made him sound like an errand boy, the messenger from the money men to the marionettes at city hall. When the door swung open and I could see past the long wooden bar with its brass rail, it was obvious who the big fish in this pond was. The messenger boy had been running messages and pulling strings for so long, all the strings were in his hands.
I slipped off my overcoat. I'd been rolling in the gutter an hour to two before, and it was the worse for the wear. It'd kept the worst off my suit, though.
"Can I take that for you, sir?" A hatcheck girl I hadn't even seen suddenly stood at my elbow.
"No thanks. I might have to leave in a hurry." I folded the coat and carried my hat, walking over to where a man who could only be Kavanaugh held court.
He was tall, even sitting, and whip thin. Even his double breasted suit coat couldn't add any bulk to that figure. He held a champagne flute like a scepter in one hand, legs crossed at the knee as he held court. A light skinned man on the stage was blowing his heart out on a clarinet, but nobody seemed to take notice. Everywhere I looked was money. It gleamed from the ladies' throats, and ears, and soft clothes. It clinked like silver on china. It gurgled like French brandy poured into crystal. It even burned, smoldering cigars from Cuba wafting clouds of smoke. Money. Everywhere I looked in this case there was money.
Before I could get close to the thin man at the center of the court, two big bruisers stopped me.
"What you doin' here?" one asked.
"And who's doin' it?" the other put in.
"I'm Matt Slade. Do either of you boys know a James Rourke?"
The non sequiter took them a moment to process. I was fine with that. I gave them time.
"Jimmy R? Nah, never heard of him."
"Right. Sure. Well, it was Jimmy R told me to talk to your boss over there."
"Oh really? And where'd he say this?"
"In a gutter, up near Temple."
"A gutter? What was he doin' in a gutter?"
"I put him there."
"Well. What say we put you back in the gutter you came out of?"
"That's not very hospitable, gents," I said. "I just want to talk to Mr Kavanaugh for a moment. That's all it'll be."
"Not tonight. He's not talking to any flat feet tonight." A big, meaty hand swung down, like the man was going to grab me by the shoulder. I swayed an inch or two, and the meathook just skidded down my arm. The other one made his grab for me. I sidestepped.
People were starting to notice. Eyes were looking our way. The bigger one seemed to know it, too.
"Come on, Bax, let's get him."
Bax and Big both lunged, but I stepped forward, right between them. Big might have caught a piece of my elbow in his kidney as I darted past. I didn't have much time; I jogged to Kavanaugh's table. I pulled out the chair opposite him and straddled it, drawing hisses from his fine company.
He sneered, but said nothing.
"One question, Mr. Kavanaugh. Two words."
He waved off his dogs, though I could feel them looming behind me.
"Claire Brazelton."