Shill for the Kill

By Greg Jackson

New York, 1938. The country is slowly climbing out of the depression and work has never been better for Jack Chambers, a private eye with a scattered past. But when a young socialite hires Jack to find her lost sister, Jack slowly begins his descent into the seedy sides of New York, where even the easiest case can turn into a nightmare.

Until Jack has a clandestine meeting with an unsatisfied, curious New Jersey housewife, Elle Parker, an aficionado of Detective stories who has an uncanny resemblance to Jack's missing girl.

Together, they try to piece together the dark web of deception, racketeering and murder, where Elle might just need to become the Shill for the Kill!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Jackson
• Release date: Nov 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311068675

Greg Jackson

Greg Jackson is author of Prodigals: Stories, for which he received the National Book Foundation's 5 Under 35 award and the Bard Fiction Prize. In 2017, he was named one of Granta's Best Young American Novelists. His fiction and essays have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, Granta, Tin House, Vice, Conjunctions, Virginia Quarterly Review, the Los Angeles Times, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and The Guardian, among other places.

Book preview

Shill for the Kill

By Greg Jackson

Copyright 2013 by Greg Jackson

Smashwords Edition

The following story is completely fictional. The characters interact with a few real people from 1938 and those conversations and encounters are not intended to be real and are written in a positive light. They never actually happened and the cities involved in this story have since been changed from what they were in 1938.

Any similarity between any original character in this book to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Greg Jackson

Cover Design by Greg Jackson

For Elle,

You gave me a boost and you don’t even know.

Thank you.

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

ONE

Hell’s Kitchen, New York

June 21, 1938

The sun hit the New York City asphalt without remorse. The blacktop fought back and angrily kicked the sun’s misery back up in visible heat waves as it held everyone who happened to be standing near it in its sufferable wake. The country was slowly crept out of the depression at a snail’s pace but the unending, torturous heat just made the irritable even more irritated. It was salt to the wound, as they say. Misery truly loved company.

Jack Chambers passed Mick’s Gym, pulled his hat down over his eyes to avoid detection and to keep the wretched glow from burning his eyes out. It wasn’t that he wasn’t welcomed at Mick’s, this was his home. He helped build this gym and everyone in that place trained, in part because of him. The kids used this place to get away from the fucked up but honest brutality of the streets and some old farts used the gym to get back a little of what they lost as age and time wore them down. But above all else, Mick’s gym was the most honest gym in the city.

But his pugilist days were over and Jack’s career as a boxer was considered, in his mind anyway, as nothing more than a method of releasing tension and helping others who wanted to travel that same path of legally beating someone’s ass in the ring. He felt good about co-owning this shithole he called a home but that didn’t mean that he was in the mood to be grilled by everyone. Shit, he was hung over and ready for a fucking nap.

The walk-up to Jack’s office was a tinderbox. The stagnant humidity smothered him as he walked up the stairs methodically; a result of a knee injury which ended his honeymoon boxing career and pushed him into a desk job checking in collars…and the pain in his knee pushed him into the confines of the bottle. It’s not like anyone around here could afford any medication that didn’t come with a proof on the label.

He strode through the makeshift reception area, which looked as if it were hit by a tornado. Files were piled high and falling everywhere. The garbage can overflowed with wads of crumpled paper. Jack grunted at the view as he made his way through the door with the frosted glass which had painted on it:

JACK CHAMBERS

PRIVATE DETECTIVE

His desk wasn’t much better condition. Empty whiskey bottles adorned his desk and nearly smothered the blotter which had nothing on it but the dried rings of bottle sweat and coffee. The room stank of stale smoke and old dust.

Jack leaned down with a deep groan of pain to plug in his Philco air conditioner and waited patiently as it hummed to life. He pulled a Camel out of his pack and slid it into the corner of his mouth while he scratched a match against the desk. Smoke filled the room and reinvigorated the stale stench that stained the walls.

Jack routinely watched the world existing outside from his second floor window as he smoked his first cigarette of the day. Very rarely did anything change around here. You can walk down to Chick’s Candy Store and see the same assortment of men yammering about the Yankees as their cigarettes dangled from their lips. If you were lucky, you’d hear an argument about the Bombers and the Dodgers and sometimes it would escalate into some punches.

Not today. Today it was too hot to think.

Occasionally there were pickpocket kids from Harlem or the Bowery coming up here to prey on Hell’s Kitchen in some sort of half-assed attempt at the rackets spreading their reach but it never really worked. This place had its own rackets and the sparrows only flew down here when the foot traffic was slow in other areas. Jack never took it seriously; he just chalked it up to the sparrows testing the market, so to speak. And to this day, he’s never seen a slicker down here. The locals in Hell’s Kitchen were too smart to fall for their confidence bullshit.

The street urchins milled about in their usual way but today they were gawking at something. A minute later that Jack saw the cause of all the rubbernecking and open-mouthed wonder. A brand new Packard-Brunn rolled down the street and finally stopped in front of Mick’s Gym…and Jack’s walkup.

The driver’s side door opened and a man rolled out, disappearing suddenly out of view under Jack’s office.

Jack unscrewed the cap to his whiskey and took a healthy swig, followed by a healthy pull from his Camel.

Excuse me. The man said as he knocked on the frosted glass after he entered Jack’s office.

Jack turned slowly and placed a hand on the desk, right over his top drawer. He ran his fingers across the drawer’s knob slowly as to not tip off the strangely polite stranger in front of him.

I assure you that there is no need for your gun, Mr. Chambers. The man said. I am here on behalf of someone who is interested in acquiring your services.

"For someone with so many manners, you would think that knocking before you walk into someone’s office would be appropriate."

I apologize. The man said. But your reception area would lead anyone to believe that manners are not high on your list of priorities.

Did you drive all the way here to give me a lesson in etiquette? Jack rolled his eyes and grabbed a dirty glass from the desk. He held it up to the sunlight blaring through his window and decided that it was clean enough. Whiskey?

No, thank you. The man said. My name is Jameson.

I didn’t ask but if you’re from the family that bottled this whiskey, I’m already in your fuckin’ debt.

Jameson tossed off a high society chuckle that was endearing and demeaning all at once. Jack immediately hated the man just for that. He wasn’t in the mood and this asshole was killing his morning buzz.

Mr. Chambers, I am here on behalf of the Van Buren family. Specifically Katherine Van Buren.

Jack gave him a confused look. You came all the way from Jersey to talk to me? Buddy, if you’re dumb enough to schlep your way from the G.W. down here, you’re my favorite kind of client. What’s wrong with the spoiled bitch? She need to track down an inheritance?

All of the humor vanished from Jameson’s voice in the span of three short seconds. I see that you harbor some resentment towards the Van Buren family.

The whole damned country hates that family. The stock market took a nose dive into hell and somehow the Van Buren family still manages to hold onto their millions? Come on, Jameson, you know it as well as I do that something stinks in that equation.

The business decisions of the Van Buren family are… none of my concern. I am lucky enough to be employed by them. But as a private detective, you have an obligation to find the truth without being outweighed by a personal bias. And the reason that we came to you is that you have a reputation for getting to the bottom of anything, regardless of your personal beliefs in the matter.

It’s a national bias and money’s money no matter where the hell it comes from. Jack said sternly. Jameson was right. Jack had a reputation as a private dick that had the muscle of a mob enforcer and the professionalism of a Boy Scout. It was yet another double-edged sword.

Jack continued: Alright, I’ll put them aside for the moment. You have one minute to tell me why you’re here.

I was asked to bring you downstairs so you can talk to Katharine directly. You said it yourself. The Van Buren family is highly successful and one of the most highly scrutinized families in the country.

Besides Capone’s family a few years back, maybe. Jack cleared his throat.

He tried to shake off the wave of nerves that slowly rattled his core. It’s been a long time since he’s uttered Capone’s name and it would be another decade before he did it again.

I’ll shoot you straight, Jameson. Jack said. I’m not interested in getting mixed up with a family who allegedly has mob ties. This is New York. You get in with one family and you have three others grilling you and that’s bad for my businesses. Not to mention what a bullet in my Irish head would do to my day.

I can assure you that this has nothing to do with organized crime. Jameson persisted. Katharine needs to speak with you about a…personal issue.

Jack just pulled on his Camel and took another healthy swig of whiskey. He looked out the window and down to the Packard. The locals were all still gawking at it and the girl inside.

I am authorized to pay you five hundred dollars. Jameson finally stated to break the silence.

He knew what motivated Jack just by looking at him. There’s one thing that spoke to everyone, especially a down-and-out ex cop who was able to put some serious hurt into somebody. Money motivated everyone, especially when you’re drinking and smoking your way into an early grave.

I didn’t take the job yet. Jack said as he finished another glass of whiskey, breathing out the burn.

Five hundred dollars can go a long way towards upkeep on your office, Jack. You can hire a receptionist and possibly improve on that gym of yours.

How did you know that it was partly my gym? You been checking up on me?

Everyone has a front. Jameson smiled. Not just the mob, as you not-so-delicately call them. Yours just happens to be something that lets you live in your broken past.

Jack dropped the glass and squeezed his hands into fists until his knuckles were glaring white. All of the color ran up to his broad face and into his sunken and tired devil eyes, which were staring now at the obnoxiously polite Van Buren lap dog.

I see that I have struck a chord. Jameson said, backing into the open door hard enough to make it smack into the wall behind it. I apologize, Mr. Chambers. But it isn’t as if you’re a private citizen. You made somewhat of a name for yourself when you gunned for Dempsey’s title. You can’t expect people to not know your past when you’re in the public eye. That air conditioner, for example isn’t even on the market yet but as I remember, I heard your voice over the radio endorsing their upcoming launch.

You’ve really done your homework for a family lap dog. Jack raised an eyebrow to Jameson.

There was definitely more to this man that he was letting on…unless he was letting Jack know that he was more connected than he was making himself out to be.

Either way, there was something about this whole situation that stunk like a dead cat in a trash can.

Everyone has their payoff. Jameson smiled.

It was an endorsement. Jack defended. "It’s all on the level. So, are you done proving to me that you have nothing better to do than play Dime Detective?"

Katharine’s waiting. Jameson said as he motioned his arms to wave Jack out of his own office. And as you know, waiting is not a trait that comes easily to any of the Van Burens.

Well let me run on down there then. Jack said.

He stood in place to smoke his cigarette.

No one was worth jumping through hoops for unless the cash was already in his possession. And as of right now, it wasn’t.

Once you pay me, I’ll rush. Jack smiled, unmoving. Until then, you’re still begging me to work for you.

Jameson cleared his throat and blushed. Jack scoffed as he slung his shoulder holster around him. He grabbed his .38 and strapped it in; making sure that the lap dog saw it plainly. And then he unplugged his Philco, abandoning his artificial cold for the sadistic oven that was New York.

TWO

Hell’s Kitchen, New York

June 21, 1938

Everyone stared intently at Jack as he was escorted to the car. It was one thing to rubberneck when you see something out of the ordinary, Jack knew this all too well in his line of work, but when someone from Hell’s Kitchen is being escorted to a car that no one around here could afford, rumors were bound to start flying. Jack tried like mad to cover himself as best he could; the last thing he needed was to have certain prying eyes getting the drop on him. Pickups like this are bad for business.

Jack held up for a second and put his palm into Jameson’s chest.

I have to check on the gym before I leave. Jack said, tilting his hat to shield his eyes from the brutal sun. He knew people would talk but he needed to cover his ass. I had an appointment to help train someone who I now have to push back until we’re finished.

Please be quick. Jameson demanded as he got into the driver’s side of the Packard.

Yes, sir! Jack smiled sarcastically.

It was one thing to hire him for a job. It was another entirely to demand his actions because you had money and the desire to make people do what you want.

Jack continued: It’s my business to make sure that you’re happy, Jameson. I’ll be out when I’m out. You wanna find another dick for the job? I can give you an address. If you want me, you need to understand that I’m not your fucking dog.

When he saw Jameson slip into the car, Jack slipped into the gym and quickly made a bee line to the back, behind the practice ring. He weaved in and out of the swinging heavy bags and approached an incredibly large man who was built like a man-beast: Pooch.

Hey I need a favor. Jack said.

You know I gotta train. Pooch said as his right fist nearly unhinged the heavy bag. Fight tonight.

Jesus, Poochie, you’re fighting Johnny Saxon. He’s half your size. How much training do you need?

I got people breathing down my neck to throw the fight, Boy-O. Pooch slammed the heavy bag again, this time much harder as the thought of throwing a fight made him angrier by the second. Moran offered me a shit load.

You’re not thinkin’ of throwin’ it, are ya? You know that Ray and I run a clean gym. Trust me, I don’t wanna do it to ya but if you dive, you’re out on your big ass.

Pooch slammed the heavy bag like a train hitting a person standing on the tracks. The bag swayed hard enough to hit the Puerto Rican welter-weight that Jack’s never seen.

Hey! The Puerto Rican yelled as his testosterone led him face to face with the bull-like Pooch.

You got somethin’ to say, Spick? Pooch asked as he stood to his hulking height, which dwarfed the Latino. I’ll hit you so damned hard you’ll land back in your goddamn homeland.

Jack yelled, smacking the man-beast on the back of the head as he looked at the Puerto Rican: Kid, you gonna let this big asshole talk to you like that?

No, sir. The kid said.

Don’t. Jack nodded. You’re an American so stand up for yourself. He says that shite again; you punch the knacker as hard as you can.

Pooch darted his bloodthirsty eyes to Jack and he finally settled down. He acted on instinct and in any true sense of the term Pooch was an animal but he respected Jack’s guidance and he always followed orders.

Jack said sternly: You know the rules, Pooch. In this gym, we’re all the same. Jack looked at the Puerto Rican. What’s your name, kid?

Carlos. He replied as he tried to stop his visible shaking. We don’t have a gym like this in my neighborhood.

Carlos, welcome to Mick’s. Your money is always good here. Jack lit a Camel. He looked back at Pooch and Carlos went back to work on his training. Poochie, you talk like that to any other fighters in this gym and I’ll personally beat your big ass until you’re a cripple beggin’ for money on The Bowery. Stop actin’ like a goddamned header.

Sorry Jack. Pooch immediately turned into a puddle of regretful goo. Just got a lot on my mind is all.

You throwin’ the Saxon fight? Jack asked.

You know me, Jack. Pooch don’t dive. But when I don’t, I’m gonna have guys afta me. You sure you want that much heat coming your way?

Jack liked Pooch like a brother. Not only was the guy menacing but he was loyal to a tee and he came in handy when Jack needed something done…or some schmuck worked over.

We’ll handle it, Pooch. We always handle it. Jack said as he handed Pooch his car keys. I need you to do something for me.

Name it. Pooch looked confused at the set of keys that fell in his oversized hand.

That Packard out front is for me. Some job for the Van Buren’s and I don’t like the smell of it. I want you to wait one minute and take my car. You follow that Packard until it drops me back here.

Why dontcha ask Ray to do it?

Someone’s got to run this joint. And since he’s the co-owner it should be him. You know the rules. Keep a car between us and don’t be conspicuous.

The confusion on Pooch’s face nearly made Jack laugh. He knew what was going through the lunk’s head and thinking about such a large man smashed into a vehicle that was too small for him was just comical, no matter how you shook it. Conspicuous was not the appropriate term.

Jack looked right in Pooch’s eyes and spoke again: And if anything happens to me, you have my permission to rip the heads off of anyone in that goddamn car. Start with the driver, he’s an asshole.

That’s all you hadda say. Pooch smiled.

Jack left and Pooch watched his boss climb into the Packard. He turned and walked out the back, pushing Carlos’ heavy bag into him. Carlos lost his balance, hit the wall and Pooch smiled as he grunted past.

The Packard was pristine as Jack climbed in. He suddenly felt underdressed for the occasion being in a car so fancy. The white leather was cool to the touch and to his surprise the car was completely soundproof. It was also air-conditioned. Normally he’d scoff at the Van Buren’s pompous nature but something about this summer heat made him swallow his values and take it in.

What Jack couldn’t get over was the sweet, sultry smell of the perfume that hung like a cloud in the car. It was enough to make Jack’s eyes water.

Jaysus, you wearing enough perfume? Jack asked, waving the air in front of his nose. Christ, you could kill a cow with that fookin’ smell.

You don’t think it’s pretty, Jack? Katharine said, her eyes never leaving the view of the zoo from her window. "It’s called Foolish Night. Everyone says it smells amazing."

I’m sure it does if you’re not swimming in it. Jack settled into the seat and pulled out a Camel, hoping like crazy that her scent wasn’t flammable.

His eyes ran to Katharine, who sat in the back seat on the driver’s side. She stared out the window for long enough that Jack became incredibly familiar with the back of her head as she slummed it and watched how the lower half lived. Jack’s life was nothing more than a spectacle to be admired like she was on safari. He’s seen the look a thousand times on a thousand fuckin’ faces and he still hated it.

Jack lit a cigarette as Jameson cranked over the engine. Katharine finally turned her head as the car started