Julie Schaper - Twin Cities Noir

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Everyone knows you’re gunning for him. But he’s dangerous. I can distract him and maybe you can take care of him. It’s to both of our advantage.”

“What if he kills me first?”

“I have a friend to back the play.” The tears were gone and she was all business. “He wouldn’t dare go up against Tommy alone, but with you…”

“Who’s your friend?”

“You can meet him tonight. Come out to Tommy’s club, The Rose of Tralee, around 8. If you need money, I can pay you.” She took a roll out of her purse as big as a grapefruit.

“If this isn’t enough…”

“I don’t need to be paid for what I’m going to do,” I said, pushing the roll back at her. “Looks like Tommy’s been generous,” I added.

“Material things. A girl needs more,” she breathed softly.

“How much more, baby?”

She smiled. Next thing I knew she was in my lap, her arms around my neck, and her tongue down my throat.

I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She whispered, “Fuck me,” a phrase that you didn’t hear from nice girls, but I hadn’t been with a nice girl since Mary Agnes Murphy back in 1917 before I joined the army. I must have made some impression on Mary Agnes, because when I was in France, she became a nun.

I had known bad girls from Paris to Havana. And Claire was definitely a bad girl. She made love like an alley cat—the scratches on my back would hurt for days. It was a great ride, especially since I’d been without for four years.

We went at it a couple more times and when it was over, I said, “You were swell, baby. I like the way you move.”

“No complaints from me either, big boy.” Claire planted a honey-cooler on my lips and went into the bathroom.

She came out wearing a silk kimono, sat at her dressing table, and proceeded to fix her hair and makeup. I dressed and she walked me to the door.

“You’ll be out to the club by 8?”

“Yes.” I leaned in to kiss her.

She turned her head. “Jake, my makeup.”

“Sure,” I said, and left.

Back at Izzy’s, I cleaned up and changed into my new tux, transferred the Luger to that outfit, and grabbed my hat and coat.

Izzy had gone home, which was good. The less he knew, the less he would worry.

It was cold in the Overland as I drove out Fort Road. The heap had no heater and I had to keep the windows down so the windshield wouldn’t fog over.

The Rose of Tralee stood on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi. It was a nice-looking place, nightclub in front, illegal casino upstairs.

The valet sniffed when I handed him the key to the Overland. I gave him a fin and he put a phony smile on his face.

I checked my hat and coat with a cutie wearing a sexy little green satin number. I ran my fingers through my hair, turned, and came face-to-face with my ex-partner. No, not Tommy Macintyre, but Maurice “Mummy” Lamott. Tall, with hooded eyes and hollow cheeks. Always a menacing figure. We had parted ways early in the ’20s.

“Hello, Jake,” he said, holding out his hand.

I shook it, fighting off the urge to count my fingers.

Mummy was a hard mug and more than a little dangerous. We went back as far as Franklin Grammar School. His gang had jumped me on the playground and beat the shit out of the “sheeny bastard.” I was saved by Frank Jr. and Tommy Macintyre.

I caught up with Mummy a few days later and kicked his ass. We had sort of a truce after that—never buddies, but we got along in high school. When Frank Jr., Tommy, and I came back from France in 1919, Mummy was setting up a bootlegging operation. He needed tough guys who knew their way around a gun. Tommy and I didn’t see anything better coming our way, so we joined his gang. Frank Jr. declined. He had seen enough of war and his health was frail.

But Mummy was too free and easy with his rod; you never knew when he would start throwing lead. His antics brought down the big machers who ran the rackets in town. Tommy and I were able to square ourselves, but Mummy had to leave St. Paul. He went to work for the Chicago Outfit where his special talents got him in good with Capone. He’d drift in and out of town after that, on errands for the Outfit. Now here he was togged to the bricks, in a fine set of white tie and tails.

“You the doorman?” I asked.

“Always the kidder, aren’t ya, Jake? Na. Ain’t you heard? I’m Tommy’s partner now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, since last month. He needed someone to run the casino. Now, Jake, I know you’re here to settle a score, but you gotta be careful. Tommy’s no pushover.”

“Shouldn’t you be worried about your partner?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Look, Jake, we been pals since we were kids. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And to tell you the truth, Tommy ain’t the best partner a fella ever had.”

“So you’re telling me you’ll back my play?”

“If I have to.” He pulled back his tail coat and I saw his gun.

Before we could continue, Tommy came walking through the crowd, glad-handing patrons left and right. Then he spotted me.

“Hello, Jake,” he said, but didn’t offer his hand. “You here to see me?”

“We have some business to finish,” I replied, looking into his broad black Irish face.

“I suppose we do. But it will have to wait. I have a club to run and the show’s going to start. C’mon—you can sit at my table and I’ll buy you dinner. I have a torch singer here with a voice like an angel and a face and figure like a Greek goddess.”

Tommy turned to Mummy. “Mummy, before the show starts, check the casino receipts.”

“What about him?” Mummy asked, pointing at me.

“There won’t be any trouble, will there, Jake?”

“Our business waited this long. For a free meal and show, it can wait a little longer.”

Mummy nodded and I followed Tommy to his table. Tommy ordered steak dinners for each of us. This wasn’t the place for conversation, too many people watching. Small talk. He told me I looked thin, I told him he had put on weight.

Then the lights dimmed and the orchestra struck up “How Deep Is the Ocean.” A spotlight came on and there stood Claire, clad in a long red evening gown. I could see every curve of her body; the gown had no buttons. She must have shimmied into it. Claire leaned into the microphone and began to sing in a dark, throaty voice.

The crowd that had come for dinner and a show certainly got their money’s worth. Every guy in the place thought she was singing to him, especially when she let go with “The Man I Love.”

When she finished, the applause shook the place and Tommy was beaming. Had the big goon actually fallen for her?

“Want to meet her?” Tommy asked.

“We have to talk.”

“Yeah, we do.” He stood up and walked toward his office; I followed. Claire and Mummy sat at a table next to the office. She gave me a barely perceptible nod; Mummy gave a tight-lipped smile.

“Mummy,” Tommy said, “stay close, I might need you.”

Mummy nodded and winked.

Tommy’s office was paneled in dark mahogany; the wood was dense and made the room practically soundproof, which suited my purposes just fine.

Tommy walked to a small bar in the corner and took down two glasses. He lifted a bottle. “Single malt, twenty years old.”

“Why not?” I said, and he poured.

He handed me the glass and said, “To old times.”

“Some need to be forgotten,” I said, and sat down in a big leather armchair.

“But not all of them?” Tommy asked.

“Not all of them.”

“Well, if it’s going to be business, maybe I should call Mummy in.”

“You know something? You can still be a dumb schmuck when it comes to women.”