Max Collins: Neon Mirage

I didn’t even know she was Ragen’s niece when he pitched me the job. We had just finished lunch at Binyon’s, a no-nonsense, businessman-oriented restaurant on Plymouth, just around the corner from the seedy building my growing private investigative firm was trying to escape from. He’d had the finnan haddie, I the corned beef and cabbage plate. We were sharing one of the wooden booths, drinking coffee.

“I made a mistake,” Ragen said, tiny blue eyes staring into the steaming black cup; he was the kind of man who could admit a mistake, but couldn’t look you in the eye doing it. “I trusted Serritella.”

“That does sound like a mistake,” I said. “He’d sell out God if the devil was buying.”

“I know, I know,” Ragen said, waving it off. Wearily, he said: “Couple years back, I went partners with the senator, on a tip sheet.”

“The Blue Sheet?”

“Yeah. I thought he was operating for himself, but he was playing his usual tricks, fronting for Guzik and company. I don’t mind doing business with those wops, but I don’t want to be in business with ’em.”

“A fine distinction, don’t you think?”

“Not at all, my lad. Not at all. As customers, I got ’em where I want ’em-putting their money in my pocket. As partners, I wouldn’t trust ’em far as I could throw ’em.”

“You think they’ve been using Serritella to worm their way into your business? Into Continental Press?”

“Hell yes. They’ve had their hand in my pocket ever since I went with Serritella; bilking me right along. Of course, I can’t lay my hands on the books to prove it. And that’s why I’m suing the bums. Serritella and Guzik both.”

“Suing them? Outfit guys?”

“It’s the only way I can get an accounting.”

I shook my head. “Sounds dicey to me.”

“Where would they be without Continental? They’re making noises about starting up their own wire-let ’em try it!”

I sat forward in the booth. “I don’t know where you think I fit into this, Jim, but I don’t do mob-related work. I gave that up the day Frank Nitti blew his brains out.”

He smiled his tight smile. “You played intermediary in the Guzik kidnapping, I hear.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t my idea.”

“I hear Greasy Thumb thinks you’re aces.”

“Let’s keep it that way. And let’s keep him a distant admirer.”

He frowned. “They’re trying to spook my lawyer, Nate. He’s been getting threatening calls; nasty notes.”

“Telling him to drop the case.”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like swell advice to me.”

“His secretary’s been getting the calls. It’s a small office- there’s no receptionist; just one girl, and him. And they’ve threatened her, too.”

“That’s a little nasty, I’ll grant you.”

He leaned forward; spoke softly. “The secretary is my niece. I feel a responsibility, here: I got her this job. Her father died last year, and the family business went with him. I’m trying to help the lass out.” He sighed. “She’s a good girl, though she has a bit of a wild streak that gets away from her sometimes.”

“And you mean to straighten her out,” I said.

“Yes. But my concern right now is her safety. Her family’s had enough tragedy…they lost the only son in the war.”

I sucked some air in. “Yeah, well.”

“Bataan,” Ragen added.

I winced. “What do you want me to do?”

“Spend some time with her.”

“If you’re looking for a bodyguard, I’ll put one of my men on it…”

“I want you , Nate. What’s your rate these days?”

“Twenty-five a day, unless you insist on the boss himself, in which case it’s thirty-five. And even if you do, I still have to run the office; I can’t be on her all the time. I’d talk to the girl, spend the first day with her, then put an op on it. I don’t work just one job at a time, you know-we have sixty-some clients, at the moment.”

“Make it hundred a day, with a week’s retainer.”

That raised my eyebrows and lowered my standards. “What do you expect to accomplish? What do you expect me to accomplish?”

He shrugged elaborately. “I think the threats are so much hot air. Those dagoes can’t afford to fuck with Jim Ragen. They’re just makin’ noise.”

“So do guns.”

He smirked humorlessly and waved that off as well. “We go to court next week. That’ll be the end of it.”

“You didn’t answer me, Jim. What do you want from me, exactly?”

“Be at her side. Make her feel safe. Make her safe.”

“Have you talked to her about this?”

“Yes. She insists she’s not afraid, though I can tell she is …though she resisted the notion of protection, at first. But, who can predict a woman; headstrong lass that she is, she up and turned around and said she’d go along with it.”

“Why, do you think?”

“She said she’d heard of you. You’ve a certain notoriety, after all.”

I’d made the papers a few times. Most of the occasions had been bad for my health but good for business.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Margaret.”

“Ragen?”

“Hogan. She’s my wife’s little sister’s girl. Pretty little lass. You should pay me, for the pleasure.” He raised a stern finger, the tiny eyes getting tinier. “Which isn’t to give you no ideas, lad. Don’t ye lay a hand on ’er, now.”

They always get more Irish when they’re warning you.

“For a hundred bucks a day,” I said, “I can leave my dick in a drawer, if you like.”

“Fine,” he smiled, picking up the check. “And leave the key with me.”

It’s funny I didn’t recognize her name. Hell, I didn’t recognize her, at first, as she sat at a typing stand near her desk in the little wood-paneled outer office on the tenth floor of the Fisher Building. She was small, and what you saw about her first was all that dark brown hair, the sort of dark brown that looks black till you study it, piles of curls cascading to the squared-off shoulders of her yellow dress, a startling dress with black polka dots, shiny cloth, silk perhaps. It hadn’t come cheap, this dress, but it seemed out of place in a law office, even a cubbyhole like this.

She turned to me and smiled, in a business-like way, and then the smile widened.

“Nate,” she said, standing, extending a hand. “It’s been a long time.”

She had pale, pale skin, translucent skin, with the faintest brown trail of freckles over a pert nose. She had a wide full mouth with cherry red lipstick, and big violet eyes. Her eyebrows were rather thick, unplucked, unfashionably beautiful, and she had a couple pounds of eyelashes, apparently real, and the whitest teeth this side of Hollywood. She looked about seventeen, but she was ten years older than that-a few laugh crinkles around the enormous eyes were almost a giveaway-and she had a very slim but nicely shaped frame. The hand she extended, in an almost manly fashion, had short nails with bright red polish, the color of her lipstick.

She was a stunning-looking girl, and in 1938, I’d slept with her once. Well. That was part of what we’d done together that night….

“Peggy,” I said, amazed. “Peggy Hogan.”

Her hand, as I grasped it, was firm and smooth and warm.

Her big grin, dimpling her slightly chubby cheeks, was one of amusement and pleasure.

“You’re still a private eye,” she said.

“You’re still a dish,” I noted.

“You told me I shouldn’t sleep with strange men.”

“I waited till the next morning to give you that advice, though.”

Her smile closed over those white teeth and settled in one dimple; she gestured to a chair, which I pulled up, and she sat behind her desk.