Nelson Algren - The New Black Mask Quarterly (№ 1)

The address I wanted in Birmingham belonged to a small crackerbox with blue aluminum siding and a rosebush that had outgrown its bed under the picture window. My watch read seven-thirty and the sky showed no signs of darkening. You get a lot more for your money by hiring a private investigator in the summertime.

My knock was answered by a tall slim woman in sweats with blond streaks in her gray hair drawn up under a knotted handkerchief. She had taken the time to put on lipstick and rub rouge into her cheeks, but she really didn’t need it. She had to be in her early seventies but looked twenty years younger. Her eyes were flat blue.

She smiled. “You look like you were expecting granny glasses and a ball of yam.”

“I was sort of looking forward to it,” I said, taking off my hat. “No one seems to knit any more except football players.”

“I never could get the knack. Come in.”

The place looked bigger inside, mainly because there was hardly any furniture in it and the walls and floor were bare. She led me to a heavy oak table with the round top removed and leaning against the pedestal base. “Will it fit?” she asked.

“Search me. I flunked physics.” I put my hat back on and got to work.

It was awkward, but the top eventually slid onto the ledge where the spare belonged and the pedestal fit diagonally into the well. She carried out a carton of books and slid it onto the back seat. “Take Telegraph down to Twelve Mile,” she said, getting in on the passenger’s side in front.

On the road I asked if Mr. Shinstone was waiting for her in Royal Oak.

“He died in ’78. I would have sold the place then, but my sister got sick and I took her in. She passed away six weeks ago.”

I said I was sorry. She shrugged. “You were married to Leonard Blum when he was Leo Goldblum?” I asked.

She looked at me, then untied her handkerchief and shook her hair loose. She kept it short. “You’ve been doing your homework. Have you got a cigarette?”

I got two out, lit them from the dash lighter, and gave her one. She blew smoke into the slipstream outside her window. “I started seeing him when I was in high school,” she said. “He was twenty and very dashing. They all were; handsome boys in sharp suits and shiny new automobiles. We thought they were Robin Hoods. Never mind that people got killed, it was all for a good cause. The right to get hung over. The world was different then.”

“Just the suits and automobiles,” I put in. “Prohibition was repealed in December 1933. In January 1934, Goldblum shortened his name and invested his bootlegging profits in construction.”

“He and Ed Klagan, Sr. had a previous understanding. I don’t know how many buildings downtown are still being held up by people Leo didn’t get on with. Mind you, I only suspected these things at the time.”

“Was Manny Eckleberg one of them?”

“Who was he?”

I told her as much as I knew. We were stopped at a light and I was watching her. She was studying the horizontal suburban scenery. “I think I remember it. It was during that terrible July. Leo and some others were questioned by the police. Somebody was convicted for it. Abe Somebody; my sister dated him once or twice. Leo and I were married soon after and I remember hoping it wouldn’t mean a postponement.”

“Why was he killed?”

“A territorial dispute, I suppose. It was a long time ago.”

“Did you divorce Blum because of his past?”

“I could say that and sound noble. But I just got tired of being married to him. That was twenty years ago and he was already turning into an old crab. From what I saw of him during the times I ran into him since I’d say he never changed. Turn right here.”

She had three rooms and a bath in the back half of a house on Farnum. I carried the table inside and set both pieces down in the middle of a room full of cartons and furniture. She added the box of books to the pile. “Thank you, Mr. Walker. You’re a nice man.”

“Mrs. Shinstone,” I said, “Can you tell me why Blum might have been killed by the same gun that killed Manny Eckleberg?”

“Heavens, no. You said he was killed by a gun from his collection, didn’t you?” I nodded. “Well. I guess that tells us something about the original murder then, doesn’t it? Not that it matters.”

She let me use her telephone to call my service. I had a message. I asked the girl from whom.

“He wouldn’t leave his name, just his number.” She gave it to me. I recognized it.

This time it rang fourteen times before the voice came on. “What’ve you got for me, Mississippi?” I asked.

“They’s a parking lot on Livernois at Fort,” he said. “Good view of the river.”

“No more parking lots. Let’s make it my building in half an hour.”

I broke the connection, thanked Mrs. Shinstone, and got out of her new living room.

The sky was purpling finally when I stepped into the foyer of my office building. A breeze had come up to peel away the smog and humidity. I mounted the stairs, stopping when something stiff prodded my lower back.

“Turn around, turkey white meat.”

The something stiff was withdrawn and I obeyed. The lanky gun broker had stepped out from behind the propped-open fire door and was standing at the base of the stairs in his summer running outfit and alligator shoes. His right hand was wrapped around the butt of a lean automatic.

“Bang, you dead.” He flashed a grin and reversed the gun, extending the checked grip. “Go on, see how she feels. Luger. Ninety bucks.”

I said, “That’s not a Luger. It’s a P-38.”

“Okay, eighty-five. ’Cause you discerning.”

“Keep the gun. I’m getting my fill of them.” I produced my half of the two hundred I’d torn earlier, holding it back when he reached for it.

He moved a shoulder and clipped the pistol under his tank top. “He goes by Shoe. I don’t know his right name. White dude, big nose. When he turns sideways everything disappears but that beak. Tried to sell me the tommy gun and some other stuff on your list. Told him I had to scratch up cash. He says call him here.” He handed me a fold of paper from the pocket of his shorts. “Belongs to a roach hatchery at Wilson and Webb.”

“This better be the square.” I gave him the abbreviated currency.

“Hey, I deal hot merchandise. I got to be honest.”

They had just missed the hotel putting through the John Lodge and that was too bad. It was eight stories of charred brick held together with scaffolding and pigeon splatter. An electric sign ran up the front reading O L PON C. After five minutes I gave up wondering what it was trying to say and went inside. A kid in an Afro and army BVD undershirt looked up from the copy of Bronze Thrills he was reading behind the desk as I approached. I said, “I’m looking for a white guy named Shoe. Skinny guy with a big nose. He lives here.”

“If his name ain’t Smith or Jones it ain’t in the register.” He laid a dirty hand on the desk, palm up.

I rang the bell on the desk with his head and repeated what I’d said.

“Twenty-three,” he groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Second floor, end of the hall.”

It had been an elegant hall, with thick carpeting and wainscoting to absorb noise, but the floorboards whimpered now under the shiny carpet and the plaster bulged over the dull oak. I rapped on twenty-three. The door opened four inches and I was looking at a smoky brown eye and a nose the size of my fist.

“I’m the new house man,” I said. “We got a complaint you’ve been playing your TV too loud.”

“Ain’t got a TV.” He had a voice like a pencil sharpener.

“Your radio, then.”

The door started to close. I leaned a shoulder against it. When it sprang open I had to change my footing to keep my face off the floor. He was holding a short-barreled revolver at belly level.