Chapter 8 - Pete Grappler P.I.

Everything comes into place...

Chapter 8

I woke three days later in St James Infirmary, and once I was awake enough to remember what had happened, I went back to sleep for another two days.  I just didn’t want to be there, and part of me wished I’d died, died at least instead of Cynthia.  I wanted no part of living, not now.

 

After those two days I couldn’t sleep any more, so I was fed with a spoon and had nurses change bandages for me.  I still didn’t want to live, I was done with it.  No Cynthia, no life, no nothing, and I wondered why they went to so much trouble to keep me alive when I didn’t want it any more.  There were so many things I coulda done differently, and I couldn’t face any of them, not now.  Even less I wanted to even try.

 

Armand came by after a week, and Gunshop Harry and Will from the lock-up, but I didn’t want to talk, not now.

 

Kincaid dropped by, but he knew he had nothing, and I had nothing to give him anyway.  It was a clear case of self-defence and defending a client, no two ways about it, and even Kincaid couldn’t make anything stick with that.

 

Armand came by again, told me that Harry the Keeper and Armand’s nephew had been taking turns sitting outside my door, and Gunshop Harry had been taking a shift after closing time, in case anyone tried to finish the job they’d started.

 

As if I cared.

 

On his second visit, Armand said that his daughter’s marriage was coming up Saturday, and I gave enough of a damn to tell him I couldn’t come, but to go to my office, here’s the key, and get a letter with another key in it.  I gave him the address of Botheby’s, and the deposit box number along with the password to get in the door, told him to take the top bag out, not to look in it, and to give it to his daughter and son-in-law, a little present from Mrs Longbottom and me.

 

That bag had over eighty Gs in it, enough to set the kids up in a nice place and give ‘em a good start in life, and I could think of no better place for it to go.

 

Armand was back day after the wedding, and handed me both keys without a word.  I knew he’d never have touched anything but that top bag, and he hadn’t.  Gypsies got honour, no matter what people say about them.  He didn’t stay long, or say much, just gripped my forearm for a minute, then left like a man with a mission.

 

He was back a few days later, and  dropped off a newspaper, not saying much.  I tossed it aside, and left it on the bedside table.

 

Next day, I decided to look at it, and saw the headline…

 

“Gubernatorial Candidate Assassinated in Broad Daylight!”

 

 The by-line read:-

 

“Cyrus Longbottom, Recently Widowed, Killed by Lone Gunman!”

 

Now there was news! I read on.. Cyrus had been out there on the hustings, making a public speech and playing the grieving widower to the hilt, and a scruffy guy, a vagrant they said, had just walked up to him and pumped six .38 slugs into him without blinking.  Didn’t stand a chance, ol’ Cyrus, and good riddance.  They’d be lining up to piss on his grave, as I surely would once I was out of here!  Maybe there was something to live for after all.

 

The vagrant was in custody, and you guessed it, good ol’ Lew-tenant Jimmy Kincaid was the hero, grabbing the guy and wrestling him to the ground. Probably get a medal for it, the prick.  Yeah, and the gun was already empty, too. Jimmy, me boy!

 

Later on that same night as Cyrus was gunned down, or so I heard later, a whole lot of things happened to Cyrus’ buddy boys.

 

Cletus Overmyer  was found with a stabbed rent boy and a bullet in his head, a gun in his hand.  Murder/suicide, they said, a lover’s quarrel.

 

They found Fishbuckets Scapione down by the river, an appropriate place if you ask me, in his car with the exhaust hooked up to a pipe and his bloodstream full of booze and coke.  Suicide, a clear case.

 

The bells at St Conflagrus started pealing at about 3am, and next morning they found Father O’Padraig hanging from his own bell-ropes.  Seems there was a scandal about altar boys that the church was hustling to cover up.

 

Couple of the big boys from down by the stockyards disappeared without a trace.  Rumour was they ended up in a shipment of pork headed for Washington D.C.  Ah, well, wouldn’t make much difference to the diet over there " those vultures ate you alive every day anyway, so they’d never notice the difference.

 

Hell, even Luigi himself went down, bit the dust.  Seems Cyrus was a silent partner in his speakeasy, and someone took offence at that public shame.  Course, Luigi had his underworld contacts, too, so it hadda be part of that gang war.  Could be Armand was up for a speakeasy ownership of his own, if he could find a backer that is.

 

Seems like a lot of the lesser life of Chicago also went out feet first in some brushfire gang war that lasted only that one night.  Nobody ever figured out who started it or who was involved, and I guess the cops just wrote it off as a good thing.  Saved them a lotta shoe leather and rubber truncheons.  Items like that are hard to replace when you’re on a walloper’s salary.

 

Armand came by again a week later, and just looked at me for a minute or two.  He had another newspaper, and this time I took it and read it right there.

 

The headline said,

 

“Cyrus’ Killer Cheats Chair!”

 

“Gypsy assassin dies of TB in cell!”

 

It seems the vagrant was a pretty sick guy, and had nothing to lose by gunning down Cyrus…. but one word hit me like a freight train.

 

GYPSY!

 

I looked at Armand with a big question mark on my face, and he nodded,

 

“Yes, Reynaldo was my brother.  His family will be well taken care of, and it is his son who has been sitting outside your door.  Stefano was also the gardener for this Longbottom and Miss Cynthia.”

 

I was flabbergasted,

 

“But, Armand, I don’t get it!  You only saw me one night talking to Cynthia at Luigi’s, why… how?  I thought you Gypsies didn’t get involved in The Others and their business?”

 

He cut me short, unusual for a man of Armand’s calm manners, but still,

 

“I said we did not LIKE to be involved, not that we would not be involved, Mr Pete. We Gypsies already knew some things about this Longbottom and his friends, and his plans to clean out the city when he became Governor … and what this has always meant to we Gypsies.  I asked Stefano to look closely at Miss Cynthia.. to see which side she was on.  This is how he came to be with her outside Madame Belle’s.  He is a good boy, and he will be taken care of.”

 

I was struggling to get my mind around all this, and just blurted out,

 

“I hope you didn’t think the gift for your daughter’s wedding was some sort of pay-off, Armand, to get you into that sorta thing.  I’m not that kinda guy.  I take care of my own business.”

 

Armand wasn’t insulted like I thought, too late after I’d said it, he might be.  He shook his head and took it in stride.

 

“No, Mr Pete.  We Gypsies take care of ourselves and of our Honoured Friends.  Have no fear that anyone would consider your gift as anything but a gift, and my daughter and her husband thank you deeply for your kindnesses. We will be seeing you at Luigi’s again soon?”

 

I nodded without thinking, and Armand shook my hand and turned to leave, leaving me stunned and amazed, until a thought dawned on me.

"Armand - wait a minute!  All those buddies of Cyrus that went down.. you didn't have anything to do with that, did you.  You and your Gypsies?"

Armand smiled,

"I told you, Friend Pete, Gypsies take care of our family and our Honoured Friends!"

He turned and left.

 

Hey, I did tell you that Gypsies had honour and they never forget, so maybe ol’ Pete Grappler’s gotta start remembering that himself sometimes, and stop thinking he always knew better.

 

When I get outta here … yeah, I was starting to be alive again, but I’d never be the same again.  When I got outta this joint, I had a few things to do, and a few debts to settle, and none of ‘em with lead.  Those kinda debts were all settled for me while I was in St James.

 

*     *     *

 

Well, I’m back on that chain gang….I’m back in my office now, only a new one, with a new desk, filing cabinet, telephone and even a secretary/receptionist to while away her time filing her nails.  Even got a gold leaf signature half glass door, says ‘Peter Grappler, Licensed Private Detective’.

 

Got me a car, too.   Ol’ Cyrus’ family had a sell-off of all the stuff they figured they didn’t need - and hey - what did they ever need, anyway?  Part of the deal was they auctioned off his beautiful Packard Twin Six, so I’ve got the wheels to go with the new office now.  Got a pretty good deal on a top floor apartment and a parking spot right next door to it, too, used to belong to ol’ Cyrus. Went for a song and I sort of had the fix in with the agent, bought it before auction for cash.  Kinda put the word about to the agent that Cyrus was a bit of a creepy type, and the family figured a quick settlement was in order.

 

No point having a stash of cash unless you spend it wisely, I always say.

 

CAPTAIN Kincaid dropped by once and voiced his suspicions, but he’s got nothing he can prove, and he was on his way to the top anyway, being such a hero and all.

 

Paid out a few outstanding markers, Armand got his silent partner in Luigi’s and a better clientele now, and I took a trip down south in my new Packard to see Sam’s Momma, and took along one of those tote sacks of cash, maybe 100Gs.  She didn’t know I’d left it on the porch until after I’d gone and she had no way to give it back.  She sent me a card from California, said she bought a nice house somewhere called Malibu, and married some guy named Denzel - Washington I think his name was.  Maybe one day one of his kids or grand-kids’d grow up to be a movie star or something.  I guess they’re kinder to dark folks out that way.

 

I put 100Gs in the bank collecting interest just to cover expenses, but a heap of that cash just sits every day in Botheby’s, collecting dust.  Must a couple hundred Gs just sitting waiting for something to happen. Maybe I'll turn it in for some gold bullion for safety's sake.  But hey, what need does a broken down old private eye with a limp have for a shipload of green stuff? There’s only so much you can buy, and some of the things you want most you can’t have for money.

 

I visit Cynthia every Sunday, rain, hail or snow, and sometimes through the week when I’m feeling lonely, and take some flowers and leave a box of chocolates for the squirrels to steal.  On my way out I stop by Cyrus’s fancy stone and piss on it when nobody’s looking.

 

I found a photograph of Cynthia in one of those bags of Cyrus’, and got it framed.  It sits on my desk all day and she smiles at me every day like I’d like her to be doing, and sometimes I day dream a little about just going home at the end of the working day. Sometimes I almost believe it, too.

 

Yeah, baby - I found a picture of you, and those were the happiest days of my life, like a break in the battle, you know? 

 

Maybe one day someone will write a song about that.

 

I wonder how the last line will go.

 

*     *     *     *

 

 

 

 

 

(finish up with a slow and sensuous jazz version of ‘Back on the Chain Gang’ last chorus).

 

 

 

Notes:-  IF Pete Grappler comes back, I can see a lot happening.  1928, year of the Stock Market Crash, and so on..  maybe….

 

Be on the lookout for 1941-2, when Pete is asked to join OSS, and clashes - of course - with GENERAL Kincaid of the Army Investigative Service.

 

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