The Best American Mystery Stories 2016

  At last the Old Man explained the job, saying that Abernathy was too damn cozy with Nick Zartell, that we were putting both men under the lens, and that they may or may not be cooking up something involving opium. The Old Man wanted all the dirt that could be had on all concerned, and he wanted it ten minutes ago. One way or another, he said, we’d be participating in a raid on Hung Lo’s Hop House, but how we’d play it was yet to be determined.

  When Alec asked the source of the dirt on Abernathy, the old Judas nodded my way, and if the heat in those men’s eyes had been real I’d be nothing but a soot stain on the woodwork. To his credit, the Old Man then launched into a barnburner of a speech starting with Rally ’round the flag, building up to Win one for the gipper, and bringing it home with a taste of Give me liberty or give me death. And it worked, after a fashion. By the time he finished, three of the four were able to look me in the eye without spitting. Clearly, they hated corruption in the ranks only slightly more than the rat who squealed about it.

  The number of women who’d visited my apartment could be counted on one hand—with three fingers change—and the last had promised to return when hell got frosty. So when I keyed myself into the dark living room and smelled perfume, I knew something was up.

  I had a fistful of .38 when I snapped on the lights and said, “Show yourself or eat lead.”

  “My God, Petey. Have you been reading Mickey Spillane again?”

  A middle-aged woman with sharp features and a sharper figure emerged from my bedroom. She wore a red dress decorated with poker hands and a hat that belonged in a birdcage.

  I put the gun away, saying, “Why the long face, Ma? No skin magazines under my mattress?”

  “You needn’t be nasty,” she said. “I was worried about you.”

  “And lizards have wings. Did Zartell send you?”

  She peered at the sofa, brushed off an invisible speck, and perched on the edge. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

  I shrugged out of my overcoat, mixed up her favorite—gin and bitters—and filled her hand with the glass.

  “Now give. What do you want?”

  “You know how I feel about Nick,” she began.

  “Sure,” I said. “Same way you feel about dung beetles.”

  She smiled and sipped her gin. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “I’m sorry for that, Petey. I’m sorry for a lot of things, but I can’t undo them.”

  “You were saying what brought you.”

  “You’ve been spending time at Hung Lo’s. Don’t ask me how I know—I have my sources. And men from San Francisco have been nosing around the Boom. I know what you’re up to, Petey, and I want it to stop.”

  I mulled that a moment. She’d always had her sources. Barmaids, strippers, hookers, women from every class of lowlife who worked on the periphery of the rackets. To their bosses they were just part of the scenery, but their eyes and ears let my mother put the squeeze on men of all stripes. What I hadn’t known was that she had contacts in the Chinese community too.

  I said, “What am I up to?”

  “You’re going after Nick. God knows why, but I won’t have it. You’re both too important to me.”

  “You’re telling me Nick’s involved with Hung Lo? I thought they were enemies.” I knew better than to expect information from her, but it cost nothing to try.

  “I’m telling you, Petey, I don’t want you going up against him. Promise me you won’t.”

  I tried to see around all the angles. Had Zartell sent her to find out how much I knew? Was she really worried about me—or him? Or was I somehow a threat to her own operation? The possibilities waltzed me around until I was dizzy.

  I said, “No promises.”

  She stood, clamped hands on my lapels, and shook me. “Promise me you won’t hurt him, and won’t give him cause to hurt you. You’re both lousy, and I don’t really have either of you, but you’re all I’ve got. Can’t you understand that?”

  I could, sadly, but I wasn’t telling her that.

  “No promises,” I said. “But I’ll tell you this. Zartell’s not the target. As long as he doesn’t interfere he’ll come out smelling no worse than he smells already.”

  “Is that what your fat little overseer told you?”

  That stopped me. She knew about him too?

  “I suppose you think you can trust him. Others have thought that, and most of them are dead.” Her eyes glistened. For a moment I thought she might cry. “You’re a bastard. Just like your father. Just like Nick. And just like every other man I ever met. To hell with all of you.”

  And while I stood there empty of words, she left.

  Next morning I told Abernathy the auxiliary had arrived. He bought the story that Seattle and Spokane had no operatives to spare, but was half inclined to take the train fare from Frisco out of my salary. His chief concern was that I’d lined up a newshound to accompany our raid. Once we pried the lid off Hung Lo’s, he wanted publicity and plenty of it.

  “Not to worry,” I told him. “I have just the guy.” And I did. A high school pal of mine was now a cub reporter for the Oregonian, and I hoped to hand him a pip of a story. It just wouldn’t be the story Abernathy expected.

  “We pop the cork Saturday at midnight,” he said. “Just in time for the respectable element to get the news with their Sunday funnies.”

  I spent the rest of the day trying to guess the Old Man’s intentions and finished up dumber than when I began. That night at Hung Lo’s I was hard-pressed not to inhale.

  On Saturday afternoon the Old Man called another chinfest at his hotel. The attendees were Mike, Alec, Rufus, Bob, and me.

  “We got the lay on this Zartell bird,” Mike said. “He’s a tough nut, but his number-two man looks ripe for shelling.”

  “That would be Jablonsky,” I said.

  Mike looked at me like I’d puddled on the carpet.

  “Name’s Jablonsky,” he said. “From what we could pick up, all his brains are in his biceps. Guy’s got ambition, though. Told one of his floozies he plans to wrangle his own racket someday.”

  The Old Man said, “Know where we can lay hands on him?”

  They did.

  Thus it was that at eight-thirty that night I slouched behind the wheel of my Studebaker in a convenient shadow behind the Boom Boom Room. The Old Man filled the seat beside me. He’d declined all invitations to explain his plan.

  “Watch,” he said, “and grow wise.”

  At 8:52 Jablonsky banged out of the Boom’s back door and craned his neck as if expecting to see something. The only thing to see was an old panel truck near the door.

  When he peered into the truck’s cab, Mike and Rufus stepped out of the shadows with guns in their fists. Jablonsky’s hands rose and he allowed himself to be prodded into the back of the truck.

  I said, “How’d they know he was coming out?”

  “We forged a note from a skirt he’s been chasing. Said she was waiting to slip him some sugar.”

  “That’s lesson one,” I said. “What’s next?”

  My education resumed in a dark hotel room, one that did not belong to any of our party. Mike and Rufus had Jablonsky on a sofa in the adjoining room, and stood shooting words at him.

  The Old Man and I watched through a partially open doorway.

  “It’s a frame,” Jablonsky whined. “A lousy, stinking frame.”

  Mike said, “You know that, and maybe we do too. But the grand jury won’t. And because counterfeiting is a federal rap, Zartell’s pet prosecutors and judges can’t help you.”

  “Bull. No one would think I’m dumb enough to walk around with stacks of funny money in my pockets.”

  Rufus smiled benignly. “You’re right. No one could think you’re dumb. Not you, the guy who got three years in stir for parking a getaway car in his own driveway.”

  Jablonsky’s sneer was something to look at. “Since when do feds
dish out the third degree in a fleabag hotel?”

  “See?” Mike said. “You’re not all dumb. We got a proposition for you.”

  Jablonsky’s eyes grew sharp. “I can’t stop you from talking.”

  And he didn’t.

  The proposition, as delivered by Mike, was that if he ratted out Zartell, they’d send the racketeer up for a long stretch and leave Jablonsky free to take over the operation. The alternative was far less enticing.

  “We know he has something going in Chinatown tonight,” Rufus said. “Something with the head dick at the Continental agency. We want the whole lay.”

  “And for that you’ll give me Zartell’s rackets? Hell, you should have said so.”

  Jablonsky gave them the whole lay.

  Zartell, it seemed, had been horning in on the smuggling end of the opium business. Being a greedy soul, he had a yen for the retail end as well, and wanted Hung Lo’s hop house empire. Hung Lo was too well protected for Zartell to show in a takeover, but if an outside outfit like Continental Investigations happened to send him to prison, no one could blame Zartell for filling the void.

  When Jablonsky ran out of details, Mike said, “Sit tight while I call Mr. Hoover.”

  He slipped into the adjoining room, closed the door, and looked proud as a bird with a worm.

  The Old Man wiggled a finger at me. “You’ve learned enough for one day. Go hold Abernathy’s hand while he gets ready for the raid.”

  I consulted my watch. Nine-forty-seven. I had plenty of time before reclaiming my bunk at Hung Lo’s.

  I said as much.

  The Old Man’s flat stare lay heavy on me. “Did that sound like a suggestion?”

  I kept hearing my mother’s words. I suppose you think you can trust him.

  “Tell me this,” I said. “That stuff about taking Zartell down was just for Jablonsky’s benefit, right? Just a way to get the goods on Abernathy.”

  The Old Man looked at me so hard I thought his eyeballs would crack. Finally he said, “Go.”

  I went. But all the way to the office, I wondered what I wasn’t supposed to know.

  Abernathy was in a snit because his reinforcements were out doing God-knows-what instead of hanging around waiting for pearls of wisdom to drop from his lips. I assured him they’d arrive soon, and he assured me my job depended on it. I was pretty sure he was right.

  My two fellow Portland ops were on hand, pretending to look interested as they cleaned their guns and counted their ammunition. Though I’d worked with them half a year, I knew neither man well, and neither showed any inclination to remedy that.

  I knew their names, but rarely had occasion to use them, and had taken to thinking of them as Mutt and Jeff. Mutt, as you might expect, was lanky and slope-shouldered, while Jeff had stubby legs and no more hair than a billiard ball. They might have been good detectives once, but their time with Abernathy—five and eight years respectively—had taken its toll. Mutt spent afternoons snoring on a bench in the Greyhound station, while Jeff could usually be found holding up a stool at Kelly’s Saloon. I’d never been able to decide if they were on the take with Abernathy or just rotten on their own hooks.

  In any case, I’d never trusted them, and wasn’t starting now. If the Old Man wanted them clued in, he could clue them himself.

  Knuckles on the door announced the arrival of a big-eared, wide-mouthed young man with a notebook in his pocket and a camera in his hand. This was my old pal Harvey, now penning obits and lost-dog stories for the Oregonian.

  “This had better pan out,” he told me. “I cancelled a date with Loose Lucy Morrelli to join this shindig.”

  We were still commiserating over this misfortune when Mike, Alec, Rufus, and Bob ambled in, and Abernathy called a council of war.

  “Pete has to leave,” he told the crowd, “so we’ll start with him.” He tossed me a smug look. “Your part is simple, kid. When both of Mickey’s hands point straight up, take the gun out of your pocket and persuade Hung Lo’s lackeys to answer the knock at their door.”

  Averting my red face, I slipped out into the hall.

  And tripped over the Old Man, who was listening at the keyhole.

  We both went down, but he bobbed up none the worse, while I lay stunned. The old guy might be shaped like a teddy bear, but he was tough as a grizzly.

  He helped me up, saying, “Keep your wits handy tonight.”

  “Should I expect surprises?” I tried to adopt the look of someone worth confiding in.

  “Always.”

  “What are your plans for Zartell?”

  He did that horrible thing with his lips.

  “You remind me of your father,” he said.

  “Is that good or bad?”

  He remained as inscrutable as the Sphinx.

  “With any luck,” he said, “our problems should be over tonight.”

  “I don’t believe in luck.”

  “It happens,” he said. “But not as often as people like to think.”

  It was probably nerves talking, but the fisheye Hung Lo’s doorman hung on me seemed fishier than usual, and the .38 felt like a Tommy gun in my pocket.

  Reclined on my moldy mattress, I tried to convince myself all was swell. Tonight’s doings would expose Abernathy for the snake he was, and he’d soon be residing in the state pen. The agency’s honor would be restored, and I’d be the shining knight who made it all possible.

  But a niggly little feeling kept after me, telling me all was less than swell. There was something the Old Man wasn’t telling, and there had to be a reason. Maybe he didn’t trust me to keep my mouth clamped. Maybe he thought I’d disapprove. Maybe he even thought I’d gum the works.

  What was that chubby codger up to?

  Time went so slowly I feared my watch had stopped and held it close to my ear. It was still ticking, but I was certain whole generations were born and died between each tick.

  By the time midnight arrived I was lost in a secondhand opium dream and thought the pounding I heard was some sinner banging on the gates of heaven. But men shouting unheavenly things in two languages brought me out of my bunk with my pistol in my hand.

  My big moment had arrived.

  The Chinese half of the shouting came from the reception area, so no one bothered me as I cat-footed down the hall and peered out at the shouters.

  Four celestials in gaudy pajamas clustered about the door, debating matters with their hands as much as their mouths.

  I followed my gun into the room, tried to point it at all four at once, and said, “Hoist ’em!”

  They might not have understood my words, but they understood my gun. They hoisted ’em.

  The pounding on the door continued apace, accompanied by English demands for admittance.

  I edged to one side, bared my teeth to show I meant business, and herded my hosts away from the door. While they jeered and jabbered, I fumbled with the locks and tossed aside the two-by-four barring the entrance. Then I flicked the latch and stood aside to admit the troops.

  Alec and Rufus entered first, followed by Bob and Mike. They stepped aside two by two as Mutt, Jeff, and Abernathy paraded in, leading Harvey the boy reporter.

  Abernathy set fire to a Cuban cigar and let the Chinese get a look at him.

  “You boys,” he told them, “are screwed.”

  While they goggled, he clarified: “You savvy screwed? Pinched. Busted. Behind the eight ball. Up the Yangtze without a paddle.”

  They goggled some more.

  “Somebody put the nippers on ’em,” Abernathy ordered. “The rest of you start gathering evidence.” He raised a hand, rubbed thumb across fingertips. “Especially the folding kind.” Then he strode down the hallway toward the office.

  Mutt and Jeff were on the move when Bob and Rufus clamped hands on their shoulders, drew them close, and started whispering. Alec did the same to Harvey.

  I looked a question at Mike.

  “Time to amscray,” he said softly. “Zartell and his goon
s are on the way.”

  My niggly feeling grew into a full-body funk. My mother’s face rose before me, scowling.

  No promises, I told it.

  “Who invited Zartell?” I demanded.

  “Answers later,” he said. “Time to go.”

  Mutt, Jeff, and Harvey were already convinced and retreating out the door after Alec, Rufus, and Bob. I followed far enough to see them scatter into every tunnel but the one leading back to the Gilded Duck. That one was full of bobbing flashlights and tramping feet.

  Mike made to slip past me, but I swung a hip and pinned him to the door frame.

  “Answers now,” I said, “or we greet the goons.”

  He struggled against me, swore like a stevedore, and said, “We gave Jablonsky a message for Zartell. Told him Abernathy and Hung Lo had gathered evidence against him and stored it here in a safe. He’s coming for it.”

  I tried to digest that. It gave me a bellyache.

  “There’s more,” Mike said. “The Old Man tipped Hung Lo that Abernathy and Zartell were staging a raid. This place is about to become a war zone.”

  The flashlights came closer. I could now make out shapes among the shadows.

  “And what happens to Abernathy?”

  Mike swore some more. “What do you care? You’re the one put the evil eye on him.”

  The bellyache spread through my body. He was right, and maybe that’s why I cared. I wanted the bastard canned—or maybe caged—but trussing him up for slaughter was out of my line.

  Shouts from the Zartell crowd announced they’d seen us. Their steps quickened.

  Mike said, “Happy? Now we’re dead too.”

  The four Chinese had done a disappearing act. I grabbed Mike’s lapel and hurried after them. He growled, but offered little resistance. The approach of Zartell’s army was loud behind us.

  Down the hall we went. The smoking lounge looked much the same, except that several beautiful dreamers had stumbled out of their bunks.

  I kicked the secret panel open, pushed Mike through, and said, “Tell the Old Man I wish him a short and sour life.” Then the wall clicked shut and I went in search of Abernathy.