Tuesday, June 17, 2014

New York 1923 - Chapters 11-12

11. Harlan Stout
Harlan Stout woke up on his old couch at sundown.  He had intended to take only a light nap, but he was exhausted and slept right through the afternoon and on into the evening.  Harlan hacked and coughed,as he always did after waking up and braced himself over his dirty sink.  After a particularly violent shuddering cough, he produced a brown phlegmy loogie that he promptly spat and watched it slink viscously into the drain.  As he watched his loogie's travels, he thought about switching cigarette brands to one of those doctor recommended ones.  His eyes darted from his murky reflection to the pack of cigarettes on his coffee table and back again.  Maybe when I'm done this pack, he thought for the twentieth time.   
With no time or desire to shave, Harlan gargled some cheap whiskey and swallowed.  He threw on a shirt, trench and hat and walked out the door, wishing he could just be at Margery's door already.  He had told her to stay put.  It was time to see if this broad could follow orders.  
Detective Stout arrived in the hotel lobby, nodded to the bell boy and made his way unopposed to Margery Van Dine's room on the third floor.  By force of habit from years as a private detective, Stout took off his shoes and made his approach, gliding down the carpeted hallway silently and coming to a stop just outside her door.  He was beyond feeling bad for evesdropping on anybody. He didn't even expect to hear anything at all.  He stealthily put his ear to to the door and heard Margery talking.  As he bent down to place his shoes neatly beside the door, he could clearly tell she was on the phone, as he only heard her side of the conversation.
"Oh, poor baby. Is he okay?"
"I meant Arnold," Margery said happily.
Harlan smiled empathetically.  He didn't want to interrupt what sounded like nice conversation, especially if it provided her some measure of relief from the insanity of the last 24 hours.
“Good." Harlan could hear the smile in her voice.  "I’ll see you both tomorrow night then, warts and all.”
Harlan wrinkled his nose.  Warts?  She better be kidding.
“See you then, Mister Silveri.”
Harlan's jaw dropped and he let out a silent scream.  He nearly lost his balance and fell over.  He needed to put some distance between her door and his person.  NOW. 
Harlan's mind raced as he reeled from the implications of what he just heard.  Adrenaline coursed though his veins, causing his legs to shake.  As he made his way down the stairs to the small bar in the lobby he nearly tripped at least a half a dozen times.  He sat at the bar fumbling through his pockets.  His hand groped the cold steel of his sidearm before finding his pack of smokes.  His hand trembling, he pulled a cig out and fumbled with the matches.
"Need a light, friend?"
Harlan's gaze shot straight out, expecting to come face to face with a pistol.  Instead, it was the barkeep with a pack of matches ready to light.
"Please." Harlan mumbled, still unable to calm himself down.  "And get me a stiff one, would ya?"  Before he had finished his first drag, the bartender carefully placed the drink was in front of him.  Stout gulped it down focusing on the slow burn in his chest, stifled a belch and tapped the glass for another.
"You alright, chum?  You look like you've seen a ghost."  The bartender asked cheerily.
"I'm good.  Just got some bad news from a family friend is all."
The bartender, genuinely concerned, opened his mouth to sympathize.  Before he could get a word out Harlan quickly followed up curtly: "It's private."  The bartender understood well when a man needed time to think, placing the drink gently in front of the detective and moved to the other side of the bar.
Harlan lit up another cigarette only to find that he still had half a smoke in his mouth.  Goddammit Harlan, get a grip, he thought.  He rapidly puffed away his first cigarette and butted it in the ash tray as he took a slower drag from the one he just lit.  
This was big.  If Margery was connected to Silveri, then what the hell was she hiring him for?  Was he merely a pawn in some sick game?  He resolved to go back up and see Margery so she wouldn't suspect anything and only after enough time had passed so as to not raise any suspicions that he may have heard anything.  He looked down at the floor in concentration.  Harlan broke out instantly in a cold sweat.
His shoes.
He stared at his bare socks as he realized with a creeping horror that he might be dead man.  Slamming a dollar bill down on the table, Harlan made his way back up to the third floor with as much dignity as a rattled shoeless man could.  Bounding up the stairs and looking down the hallway, Harlan saw his shoes, laying where he had left them beside the door.  Again he stealthily made his way to Margery's room and slipped on his shoes.  He took a breath, relaxed, exhaled and brought his hand up to knock gently.
His knuckles should have rapped on wood, but instead they hit air as the door opened.  
"Oh!  Detective Stout!"  Margery squeaked, surprised. 
"Mrs. Van Dine!  I, uh, I..."
"Did you just get here?  I had almost given up on seeing you again today."  Something about the way she asked the question immediately bothered Harlan.  Was he just being paranoid?
"Why yes!  What a coincidence, heh, I was just about to knock and there you go opening the door.  Do you read Tarot cards as well?"  Harlan joked awkwardly.
"Tarot cards?" Margery smiled, not quite getting it.  
"Nevermind."  Then, regaining his compsure.  "May I come in?"
"Certainly detective.  I was just going for some fresh air, but I'm glad you're here."  Van Dine said cheerily.
I bet you were, you lying whore, Harlan thought.  Lets play.


Harlan made his way back to his apartment, his mind running a hundred miles an hour.  He was so deep in thought he didn't even think of pulling out a cigarette.
He had spent a good hour and a half talking with Margery Van Dine.  Talking about her relationship with her brother, Jim Soong, trying to find an angle.  At the same time, he baited her with subtle questions that clearly revealed she was being elusive.  Something was going on, that much he was sure about.  
Harlan had left her that night saying that he thought she should stay in the hotel for at least another two days.  She needed to lay low until the heat was off.  Harlan told her that he needed a few days to work and that in 48 hours he would be back with his findings.  He pre-paid for room service for the next two days.
Of course he knew Margery wouldn't stay put, despite her assurances.  He saw her in a new light now.  She wasn't naive, far from it.  This dame was a sharp as a tack and dangerous as a king cobra.
Harlan spent the rest of the night preparing.


Harlan set three alarms for 4 pm the next day.  He woke up, shaved, put on his best clothing usually reserved for weddings, and strapped on his two revolvers in matching hip holsters.  In his sock he concealed a Derringer 2,0, otherwise known as a ladypistol and strapped his combat knife from the Great War to his leg.  As an afterthought, he carefully placed his straight razor flat in his breast pocket.  Stout grabbed the day's paper and began his stakeout of Margery Van Dine. 
Sitting almost a block away on a park bench with a clear view to the entrance of the hotel, Harlan waited.  Years of honing his patience paid off as he observed a brand new black Cadillac pull up to the front of the hotel.  An elephant of a man stepped out of the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door.  Margery Van Dine gingerly emerged from the front of the building and hopped in.  
Harlan frantically waved down a cabbie and showed him a crisp 5 dollar bill.  "Follow that black Caddie and this is yours."
"Yes sir!" the cabbie responded, and sent the taxi lurching forward in hot pursuit.


After 20 minutes of pursuit, the Cadillac squeezed through an alley and finally came to rest at the rear entrance of the classically designed 2nd 3rd Bank of New York.  Once again, the giant man opened the door of the car and Margery Van Dine stepped out and quickly ducked into the building.
"Thanks pal, now beat it."  Harlan dismissed the cabbie, eyes fixed on the rear entrance.  Figures they'd use the back door.  Harlan spat.  Scumbags.
Finding another park bench with a clear view to the alley and a partial view of the back door, Harlan waited.  This time of evening was busy in New York City.  Harlan figured he blended right in as he staked out the Bank, waiting for anybody to come in or out, hungry for clues.  This was even bigger than Mindy Jimmerson.  This was the head of the giant, the king of the underworld, the right hand of...
*click*
Harlan froze as he felt the muzzle of a very large handgun dig into the base of his skull.
*click* The second click told him the gun was cocked and ready to fire on a hair trigger.
"Don't turn around, don't say anything.  You so much as pass gas and it'll be a closed casket at your funeral.  Let's go for a walk."
Harlan kept his cool and heard the rustle of a newspaper neatly folded over the magnum resting against the back of his head.  As he stood up, the concealed gun kept contact with his lower back.  
Looking straight ahead, he was escorted toward the alley linking the street with the back of the bank.  Harlan thought about his options.  He could take his chances on the gun jamming or the gunman hesitating.  He could run or try to fast draw his own weapon.  His hopes faded further as he noticed a handful of men emerge from the shadows of the alley.  If he could just position one of the other men in front of him, he could possibly get his captor to shoot one of his own men. 
He counted 5 men in cheap suits when he felt a blunt force blow connect with the side of his head.
The world went black.
12. Ronald Crispin
Crispin held up a trembling hand to request a break. He removed the bit of wood between his teeth and took another swig of mint julep. The side of his face had been painfully cleaned and bandaged, but that was the easy part. The bullet lodged in his lower back was the real problem. The little whiskey Rex had given him wasn’t nearly enough to deal with the pain of semi-amateur surgery. Ronald had asked for more when they had reached the hidden clinic, but with an embarrassed apology, the doctor explained that mint julep was the only alcohol he had been able to get his hands on.

Taking a deep breath, Ronald bit down on the stick again, he did his best to brace himself and signaled the doctor to continue. The back alley surgeon plunged his tweezers into the bullet wound again, provoking a moan of pain that Ronald couldn’t have suppressed if he had wanted to. The pain only worsened from there, tearing through the thin veil of comfort provided by the unpalatable hooch.

“Boy, it’s really stuck in there,” grunted the doctor.

“How long is this going to take?” Rex’s voice, laced with boredom, drifted through Ronald’s mental haze.

The pain grew exponentially and in another moment, the world went dark.

Crispin came to slowly. He felt drunk, but his pain remained intense. He opened his eyes slowly, discovering a set of blurry rafters slowly rotating above him. Or were the rafters holding still and he was the one spinning?

“Welcome back,” came an unfamiliar voice. “Take it easy, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

wheerr,” Ronald slurred, “wheeerrrr emmmmmmm…

“You’re at my clinic. Johnson’s clinic.”

Ronald struggled slowly to an upright sitting position, swaying dangerously in every direction.

“Easy now,” the doctor repeated.

emmm coaths…” Ronald continued, then worked his tongue around his mouth trying to clean away the accumulated paste. He felt his cheek sting and touched it gingerly with his hand, feeling bandages from his ear all the way down to his mouth.

“Your what?” asked the doctor politely.

Cooooooaths!” Ronald demanded, attempting to fix the doctor with a stern look, but only succeeding in swinging his head in a wide arc that left him feeling nauseated and dizzy.

“Your clothes, of course. Let me help you.”

With the doctor’s help and seemingly infinite patience, Ronald eventually found himself dressed. The dizziness was gradually fading away and he was finally able to focus his vision, more or less, in one direction at a time.

Surly, his body aching in pain, and barely able to walk, Ronald soon found himself navigating with enormous difficulty through an alley, heading toward what he assumed was a street. Finally emerging from the alley, he ambled along, not really sure where he was going or how to get there.

With no understanding of how long it took him, Ronald finally came upon a phone booth. He fought with the sliding door for a minute or so and finally made it inside. He grabbed the ear piece and after a few failed attempts, succeeded in forcing a nickel into the slot.

"Hello, how may I direct your call?"

“carr,” Ronald muttered into the mouth piece.

“Car? Are you calling for a taxi, sir?”

“No, CARR,” he replied angrily, then clutched his cheek again. “Rex Carr.”

“Are you referring to Rex Dickson Carr or Rex Stuart Carr?”

“REX DICKS CARR” he yelled into the phone, suffering a faint tearing feeling under the bandages.

“There’s no need to yell, sir,” scolded the operator. “I’ll connect you now.”

“Rex,” came a familiar voice after a few rings.

“Rex,” said Ronald with relief.

“Ronald? Is that you?

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible, where are you?”

“new york,” he muttered.

“No kidding,” Rex sighed. “Look, I’m glad you survived the operation. Now get home and get some rest. You’re no good to me half-dead.”

“Hmm, rest…” Ronald mumbled back.

He hung up the phone and stepped back on to the street. He stood still for a moment, contemplating his bed. Resting sounded good. He put a hand to his lower back, feeling the deeper wound. As addled as his brain felt, it was still registering a lot of pain. He didn’t like the idea of agonizing in bed. He hesitated, unable to decide.

A yellow cab driving past brought him back to reality and he registered it just in time to raise a hand to wave it down. The cab pulled over and stopped abruptly. Automatically, Crispin climbed in.

“Where to, mister?” asked the cabbie casually.

Ronald thought for a moment. He decided he didn’t want to go home. He wanted something to dull the pain. Perfect time to head to his favourite speakeasy, the Fish Tank.

“da fesh tank” Ronald muttered and leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

“What’s that?” asked the cabbie, turning around to better understand his passenger.

“Said da fesh tank,” Ronald mumbled back, struggling to make himself comfortable.

“Second third bank?”

“da tank,” Ronald agreed, finally settling into a position that eased the pain in his back.

“Alright, then.”

Ronald tried to take slow, deep breaths, but couldn’t help wincing and grinding his teeth as the cab bounced along the road. The drive felt like it lasted for ever, but he relaxed, knowing comfort was at the other end. The cab finally stopped and Crispin handed the cabbie some money, hoping he wasn’t overpaying.

He climbed out and took a moment to get his bearings. Where was the Fish Tank again? As he looked for familiar landmarks, it slowly dawned on him that he was in the wrong neighborhood. He looked back and saw the cab driving down the street.

“Rats,” Ronald thought to himself. “Rotten cabbie just took me for a ride.”

He stomped his foot in rage, causing a wave of pain to run through him and making him even angrier. He glanced around, furiously looking for any excuse to yell at someone. He caught sight of a man in a trench coat leading a man in a black suit around the side of a nearby building. As he glared, his muddled brain recognized his old partner, Harlan Stout.

“What’s that bastard up to?” he thought to himself. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” he decided.

He gruffly barged through a group of businessmen and saw his quarry disappear into an alley. With renewed determination, he fought through the pain and fast walked after them. He turned the corner just in time to see the man in the black suit pull a pistol out from under a newspaper and smack Stout on the side of the head. Stout went down immediately.

“YOO DIRRY BASRARD!” Ronald yelled indistinctly, despite himself.

He couldn’t stand the sight of Stout, but if anyone was going to pistol whip him, it was going to be Ronald Crispin, not some stiff in a suit. He reached into his coat for his pistol. It was only when he grasped at an empty holster that he remembered the Van Dine dame had stolen it.

The man in the suit reacted to Ronald’s movement by spinning around and firing. Stone chips burst from the wall near Crispin’s head, causing him to belatedly attempt to dodge the bullet. He dove out of the way as the man fired a second time. He landed hard and felt the stitches in his cheek and back rip. Stunned by the sudden pain, he could do little more than moan and writhe helplessly. A moment later, he became aware of black shoes standing around him.

“I didn’t even hit him,” said one voice.

“He’s definitely bleeding though,” said another.

“Let’s get him inside,” said a third. “You’ve drawn enough attention as it is.”

Crispin felt two sets of hands pick him up under the arms and drag him deeper into the alley. He felt a sudden surge of pain and then nothing.

* * *
“Ron,” came a familiar voice. “Ron, you dumb mook.”

Ronald opened his eyes. The alcoholic haze was gone now, but the pain was so much worse. He opened his eyes and found that he was in a brightly lit room. He tried to move his hands, but felt cold metal handcuffs digging into his wrists. He was sitting on a chair. He managed to look around and found the source of the voice. Harlan Stout sat in a chair beside him.

“Harlan,” Ronald croaked. “You rat bastard.”

“How the hell did you get yourself into my mess?”

“Long story,” Ronald answered evasively. “Where are we?”

Before Harlan could answer, a door at the other end of the room swung open and in walked Jim Soong, followed by two of the large, black suited men Ronald had seen in the alley.

“You’re in a private office reserved for my use at the Second Third Bank,” he answered calmly as he closed the door behind his goons. “I know that because I put you here,” he continued as the suits positioned themselves behind the detectives.

Soong contemplated his prisoners for a moment before giving a tiny nod. Ronald felt a meaty fist smash into his bandaged, bloody cheek and gasped in pain. A simultaneous shout from Harlan implied he had received similar treatment.

“What I don’t know,” Soong continued, “is why you are here.”

“I was following him,” said Ronald, painfully inclining his head toward Harlan.

“What?” Harlan shouted back at him. “What the hell were you do--”

The sound of another meaty smack cut Harlan short. Ronald couldn’t help but smile, although the pain in his cheek made him regret it immediately.

“I’m the one asking the questions,” Soong explained quietly. “So, Mr. Stout, what are you doing here?”

“None of your goddamn business, you triad bastard,” Harlan growled back defiantly.

Ronald turned his head just in time to see one of the suited men grab a hold of two of Harlan’s fingers and wrench them mercilessly. The resounding cracks and the scream of pain left no doubt that they had broken.

“You really want to know?” Harlan spat between gritted teeth. “I was following your cunt sister.”

“What?” it was Ronald’s turn to shout in surprise and get punched for his trouble.

“That’s right,” Harlan continued. Ronald could see a shadow of confusion on Soong’s placid face. “Your sister just got off the phone with Flo Silvestri and then jumped in a car with you. Ain’t that the cat’s pajamas?”

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