The Road to Nowhere Special - Chapter V (Part II of II)

I called a guy, nobody too important, to take care of the body. He dumped Mr Grey in the City Oil Field and charged me three hundred bucks for his trouble. I reminded him of his kiddie raper beef and told him to stick it up his ass before I shoved my baton up there, sideways, and/ or sent him on his merry way to San Quentin singing the electric chair blues.

            It took me four hours to hose down the place, discard pieces of evidence and most importantly, shower and shave. I had to look the part of an honest cop today and, in all honesty, I was failing miserably at it. I remember thinking that more guys would be on their way so I went to my sock drawer and grabbed my unmarked .357 with tape on the handle and trigger and I was scared and I knew it and they probably did too.

            I jerked off in the car to calm down, put her into first, and gunned my way across Hollywood Boulevard at fifty. My head hurt. I took a drink. My eyes kept flickering. I saw her dead on the floor; I saw the pink door; I saw Benny Siegel pumping rounds into her while laughing. Pop drove the tinted Cadillac. Fuck.

            I came to in the parking spot.

Puffing away on a cigarette I cased the joint. The place vibed magnificence and sobriety from the outside. But this late afternoon The Chicago Confetti Club was as dead as Caesar, and by the way these guys were running the show, Jack Dragna too. Outside people busied themselves eating hot dogs on park benches, adjusting their neckties and fantasizing over the new girl at the office with her tight fitting blouse. Nobody saw me there and neither did the doorman. He was heavy-set, black with a relaxed expression on his bruise ridden face. He didn’t look like the kinda guy you’d want to mess with so I stuffed the .357 in my pants rather than my .38.

He watched me slam the door, hover round the front of the car, stumble across the street and tiptoe over the sidewalk to him.

            “No bums in here pal,” he said.

I laughed, flashed him my credentials, asked to see Mr. B. Siegel and told him to go fuck his mother. He showed me in right away. He didn’t have the balls to frisk me either so I was in the clear for now. I followed him into the middle of the room, past the furnished booths, hopped up horn blower and to a small circular table below a blinking bogus chandelier. There, sitting round a plate of lobsters, was Meyer Harris Cohen and the toned, tanned and tumultuous Johnny Stompanato fiddling with his display handkerchief and the cock on his grease ball forehead.

            The doorman spoke first: “Detective Lacy.”

Cohen looked past me nonchalant. “And what the fuck does he want?”

            The doorman shrugged his heavy shoulders and turned on his heel. Cohen wolf whistled and gestured me to take a seat. With my left hand I felt for a bomb under the chair as I put my ass into park.

            “So, Detective, what can we do you for? A smoke? A drink? Or how’s about a nice girl?” he said with a grimace.

            Johnny Stompanato popped his knuckles and some gum.

I declined their offer with great reluctance and queried for an audience with his boss. The response I got wasn’t exactly welcoming.

            Cohen wiped the lobsters and the champagne across the room. I reeled in my seat. Stompanato pulled his .45. Cohen leaned over me, seized me by my necktie and went to pummel me before a voice cried:

“MAYAH!”

            He looked over my head, drooling. The voice told him to put me down. Cohen eyed at me, flashed another glance back over my head, then retreated back into his seat fuming. He lit a cigarette and chewed the inside of his mouth.

            I looked slowly over my left shoulder to see a figure emerge from the darkness of a stage side door, puffing a cigar, ignoring the old guy mopping dots of the house red up off the floor. Benny Siegel. I fumbled for my cigarettes and he slumped himself down in the seat next to me, slapping me on the back.

            “Sorry about that pal, excuse Meyer, he can get a little carried away with his temper sometimes.”

            The little Jew with the receding hair line spat on the floor.

“Anyhow, what can I do for you?” He continued.

            I paused for a moment, and took a second to regard the man, he had a strong build, met me in height (around five feet ten) and was plagued by expensive cologne. I put out my cigarette and he crushed it with his Dedicado. You see he had that look about him, someone who was crafted to be a handsome bastard and had the money and finesse to do it, but he wasn’t.

            I swallowed, lit another cigarette and shot a glance at his big hands on the Indian cotton tablecloth.

            “A favor, I’m Detective Jake Lacy of the Ad Vice squad.”

He snarled, wiped his hands with a serviette, crossed his arms and pointed at me like he was holding a gun.

            “You!” He laughed.

He leapt back in his seat, like an athlete and ran around his chair to me, rubbing my chin with his fist.

            “This guy… This guy… He’s got more balls than the two of youse put together. He takes out one of my guys and then has the guts to walk in here and ask ME for a favor.”

            Mickey C and Stompanato smiled enthusiastically, not.

“And what can I do for you Detective? Show you the door or Johnny’s trusted pal?”

            Stompanato patted his .45 for effect.

“We’ve already met.” I said.

            “Then what can I do you for?”

“I need the name of Attwell’s go-between for those responsible for OD’ing those downtown hopheads.”

            He raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“I figured you’d want them behind bars and off the streets and I could do with saving my reputation down at the precinct.”

            “And I’d get what in return?”

“A go on my sister and the Attlee investigation dropped and a pass on the murder of Rose -- with no questions asked.”

            That’s when he laughed.

“Wait, you’re expecting me to listen to a drunk cop who, as glorious as he and his department is, wants to give me a free fucking pass.”

            His icy blue eyes rolled into the back of his head with animation and he buckled up into a fit of wild maniacal laughter. He seized my hand and shook it firmly before politely telling me to get the fuck out of his club and hurtling a chair after me. I did one better and pulled the .357 while he fumbled with his holster.

            Stompanato raised his hands and Cohen leapt at me. I stamped him, breaking his nose with the barrel of the gun, and threatened to shoot the wide fucking thing off.

            “I’m not looking for trouble.” I said, and then added: “Bugs” for my own amusement.

“Bugs?!” he screeched before lunging at me over the table. Mickey C caught him and told him to calm down.

Sigel adjusted his necktie and gestured for another of his dogs to come to the table. I took my leave. He uttered two words - the second finishing with him and, as I sprinted out the door, I realised that the first wouldn’t be pay.