Chambers-Riggs Detective Stories (Shill for the Kill and Blood Runs Deep in the Gutter)

By Greg Jackson

The Chambers-Riggs Detective Stories is a bundle of two crime novels, written by Greg Jackson, in one bundle! The bundle is available exclusively on Kindle, so take a walk into the dark alleys of 1938 New York City! Follow Private Detective Jack Chambers and Elle Parker/Madison Riggs from the beginning and watch as their cases take them into the murky depths of a gritty, corrupt and violent New York City.

The following novels are included in this bundle:

Shill for the Kill
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 violent past. When a young socialite hires Jack to find her lost sister, Jack slowly begins his descent into the seediest sides of New York, where even the easiest case can turn into a nightmare. When Jack meets the always-curious New Jersey housewife, Elle Parker, he realizes that not only does she resemble his missing girl, she's a good detective on her own.

When Elle takes on the alias Madison Riggs, she and Jack try to piece together the darkest webs of deception, racketeering and murder, where Elle might just need to become the Shill for the Kill!

Blood Runs Deep in the Gutter
1938. New York City. A young woman hires The Chambers-Riggs Detective Agency to tail her husband, Simon Weiss, a comic strip artist and creator of the newest and hottest strip in the papers, The Adventures of Bucky Mars. They accept the job but soon realize that there's a lot more to Simon Weiss than what they see in the funny pages. A simple tail job pins Jack Chambers and Madison Riggs as pawns in a sinister game of deception and violence. Spanning from Hell's Kitchen to Long Island and into the darkest depths of Chinatown, they soon find out that everyone's on the take, everyone is connected and everyone wants them dead.

Murder has the last laugh in the gritty crime sequel to Shill for the Kill, where Blood Runs Deep in the Gutter!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Jackson
• Release date: Mar 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310156649

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-Blood Runs Deep in the Gutter

(Chambers-Riggs Detective Stories Bundle)

By Greg Jackson

Copyright 2015 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.

Shill for the Kill

Copyright 2013 by Greg Jackson

Cover Design by Greg Jackson

Blood Runs Deep in the Gutter

Copyright 2015 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:

Shill for the Kill:

Blood Runs Deep in the Gutter

Shill for the Kill

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.

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 fooking 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 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 moving. Jack guessed that she didn’t possess the ability to make things out when they were in motion.

I think it’s time now for an appropriate introduction. Hello, Jack. She finally said with a sexy smile as she pulled a Chesterfield from her purse. She placed the filter between her soft, pouty lips and leaned in for Jack’s expected chivalry. He rolled his eyes and flipped his lighter under the Chesterfield. It’s nice to see that chivalry isn’t dead.

It’s nicer to see that you demanded it. But I have a business to run so get to it, lady.

Jack looked the girl up and down. Her perfectly full breasts pushed against the fabric of her form-fitting shirt and her curvy, ample hips barely fit within the confines of the skirt that looked to be painted on. Katharine had that rare, dual quality about her that begged for sin as it came wrapped in class. She even smoked like a siren; she pulled on the cigarette cutely as the smoke playfully snaked around her full, sex-filled lips.

The Foolish Night that was choking him suddenly seemed to accentuate her sex appeal and Jack’s mind wandered into his imagination, was undressed the nymphette in the matter of seconds.

Jack couldn’t quite get her age. Her body was mature and sinfully full but her face was no more than twenty years old. Her features looked to be in the vein of a model but her small amounts of baby-fat clinging to her gave her a youthful innocence that made the sexier parts even dirtier to think about.

Jack couldn’t shake the butterflies that were in his stomach. Half of the butterflies wanted to instantly ravish the young femme. The other half of the butterflies warned him and told him that she’d gut him like a fish if he gave her the opening.

I want to hire you to find my sister. She said as the smoke teased her lips again.

I’m sure that your father has an army of people who can find her, Ms. Van Buren.

Please call me Katharine. She smiled coyly. And my father has nothing to do with me being here. It’s my request and I feel the need to keep this…discreet. You can imagine that the press would have a field day when they find out that Mr. Van Buren’s oldest daughter has gone missing.

"Yeah, the last thing your family needs is bad press, Ms. Van Buren." Jack said snidely.

Mr. Chambers, I appreciate your hostility towards my family. Everyone in this city hates us for who my father is. I’ve learned to accept living in his overbearing shadow but you have to understand that Rebecca and I have lived under that shadow forever. We were a team, going through this miserable existence together. When she left my father was furious. He practically disowned her because what she was into would tarnish his legacy. I was devastated when she disappeared. I lost my only partner in this horrible life.

Jack tried to find some sincerity in her eyes. It was a difficult task. The girl grew up under a major industrial capitalist and under a social microscope. He couldn’t deny her the need to be flippant.

I know that stare, Mr. Chambers. She smiled as she blew out another plume of smoke from her beautifully full lips. No one takes me seriously and I expect nothing more from you. By the way, the man you have tailing us needs a bit of work.

Jack looked back and stared at Pooch, who was doing well and doing what he was told. There was a car in between and he was looking as inconspicuous as he could.

This girl was either really good or really paranoid. Jack hoped that it was paranoia. Crazy’s easy to work with. Someone who runs the angles? Not so much.

Katharine continued: But you have to understand that I’m in a rather precarious position here. My father would disown me as well if he knew I was here to hire a private eye.

Does your father think that whatever Rebecca is into will hurt his reputation? Jack asked, officially becoming more interested as Katharine started to loosen up a bit.

Whether you choose to believe it or not, my family is not tied to any organized crime. Not that I know of, anyway. But Rebecca was running with this guy…a Richard Lombardi. She met him when she was down here celebrating her birthday and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

So maybe she ran away with this Lombardi. Jack shook his head. Maybe it’s that simple.

Jack knew it wasn’t that simple. It never was.

Katharine shook her head: Not with Rebecca. It’s all drama with her, a big show. She’s grown accustomed to the money and won’t settle for anything less. She talked my father into loaning her money to set up in the city. She got a nice apartment on the Upper West side.

Where is this going, Katharine? Jack asked. You seem to be solving this case before I even get a chance to ask you about anything.

Katharine smiled and it made it difficult for Jack to prevent himself from ravaging her. She had a hypnotic presence to her that just made you need her.

Shit, he thought, I have to get out of this car.

Jack, my father cut her off when he found out that she was living with this Lombardi guy out of wedlock. But the last I heard she was still there. The last time I spoke to her was three days ago.

Where’s the money coming from for her to rent the apartment? After your father cut her off.

"She said that Mr. Lombardi’s bookstore was doing amazingly well and that business was booming for him."

She’s using his last name only, very informal. You gotta love the contempt of the rich.

She continued: So I went looking for his bookstore, which you would think was also somewhere in the Upper West and I didn’t find one owned by a Lombardi anywhere. So I asked Rebecca about it and she looked at me and stalled. After a few minutes, she finally broke down told me that his bookstore was somewhere in the West Village.

Fuckin’ goose chase, Jack thought. Van Buren didn’t have the money or channels to check into the business? This was already turning into a pile of shite.

Katharine cleared her throat: There was something in her eyes when she told me…it was a vacant look that seemed to be trying to find a lie that would stick. It’s a sister thing and it’s something that we could both do. We know the look when we’re lying to each other. And she never lies to me. Ever. Until that day.

Jack was curious but skeptical. He didn’t need to show his cards right away but his investigative instinct was kicking into high gear.

She’s gone, Mr. Chambers. Katharine said as she tried to swallow back the tears that were welling up in the corners of her blue saucer eyes. I know in my heart that Lombardi did something to her and I don’t know what.

Katharine leaned in and collapsed into Jack’s chest. She let the tears fly.

Jack, I just want my sister back. She cried. Please help me get her back. I don’t want to lose her.

Katharine’s breasts pushed into his side, their warmth oozed from under her blouse. He felt her sweet, warm breath feather-dusting his neck. It was so comfortable that it became instantly uncomfortable. It didn’t help when she squeezed his inner thigh.

I guess I can look into it, lady. Jack said, not moving her hand from his leg. But the offer stands. Five hundred plus expenses.

My money will not be used for you to dive into the bottom of a bottle, Mr. Chambers. I expect you to drink on your own dime.

Fine. He said as he slid her away from him with a polite push. Meals and gas and the usual expenses. I’ll keep my own addictions on my own pay scale.

Thank you, Mr. Chambers. She smiled. She patted Jack’s inner thigh one more time. She squeezed and whispered in a tone that could have been taken a hundred different ways: I heard you were the best at what you do.

Jaysus, he thought. This dame was gonna get him killed.

My father will be out of town tomorrow afternoon. She said as she stamped out her cigarette. Come by then and I will provide you with photos and everything I have that may assist you. And I will pay you your money then. And before you ask, the money is from my own trust account. It can’t be traced back to my father.

I wasn’t going to ask. It spends the same. He said, trying to connect all the gaping holes in this little game of hers. I have an engagement at seven so I have to be done with you by six.

You’re going to the Joe Louis fight at Yankee Stadium, aren’t you? My father and I are going to that as well.

How did you know?

I wish I could say that it was my investigative instinct but I know that you used to engage in pugilism. And what boxer wouldn’t want to see Joe Louis fighting a Nazi on the national stage? Word has it that this is going to be the fight of the century. The whole city’s a buzz about it.

Jack nodded and remained silent until the car pulled up again in front of the gym. He smiled and Katharine smiled back, her lips and eyes littered with dual meanings.

As Jack stepped out into the Hell’s Kitchen heat once again, his stomach dropped. There was a hell of a lot more to this story and to Katharine that met the eye.

Rule number one in this business: Simple always turns into the most complicated hell that you could imagine.

I need a fuckin’ drink. He grumbled to himself as he disappeared into the walk-up.

THREE

The Heights, New Jersey

June 21, 1938

The radio hummed from the living room as Elle Parker brought out her cheese spread and her freshly baked red velvet cake. Her husband, John greedily rubbed his stomach…hard enough that it was almost comically sarcastic. She looked at their friends from the next block over, Ken and Pat Tierney and they mocked John by aping his movements.

Alright, alright, I get it. Elle said. I know I make a big deal of our couple’s nights but what fun can be had playing Canasta on an empty stomach?

We are beyond full from that delicious dinner, Elle. Pat smiled as she tried to remain erect in her chair. To Pat, posture was everything and without it, you might as well be lying in a casket. Are you trying to kill us?

"I’d know how to get away with it too after reading John’s Black Mask magazines all the time. Not to mention his addiction to Dime Detective. Elle smiled and cut the cake precisely into perfectly measured pieces. So you all better mind yourselves before I mastermind your horrible demises."

John shot her a disgruntled, fed-up look.

You definitely need to give me that recipe that you went by for that delicious pot roast. Pat smiled.

Elle systematically dropped the triangular pieces of red cake on the plates and handed them around. She licked the stray icing off her fingers between plating.

The men were still rubbing their stomachs as they lit their cigarettes to finish off the perfect taste combination of a smoke after dinner.

I will, Pat. Elle said before she looked at John. Honey, can you be a dear and light me a cigarette? My hands are a little on the full side.

John rolled his eyes and grumbled. He quickly slid a Chesterfield from her leather pouch and lit it for her. He handed to her in the middle of her own assembly line of desserts, which disrupted her efficient doling out of red velvet. The whole transaction looked like nothing more than a nuisance to John.

So John, when do you start this salesman thing? Ken asked before he jammed a fork ferociously into his cake like he was a Viking after a battle.

If Pat was the epitome of etiquette, she was clearly only sticking to it as a method to visually distance herself from her brutish, Neanderthal husband Ken.

I have to go on the road through this month and do the door-to-door gig until I learn the ropes. John said. And once I make my quota I will get offered a desk job somewhere within driving distance.

John pulled on his cigarette proudly and exhaled in a satisfied breath.

We’re just lucky that he found the job. Elle said as she severed a small bit of cake which daintily found its way into her mouth. They say this Depression is almost over but let me tell you, I was beginning to wonder.

We were too. Pat shook her head in solidarity.

Elle knew that Pat didn’t have those worries though. No one would fire Ken the work-bully. People just bought his insurance so he’d leave them alone.

Pat continued: I don’t know what you’re going to do with yourself while he’s gone, Elle. I’d go absolutely bananas if Ken left for a month.

Elle and John looked at each other and both silently agreed that if they were Pat, they’d sleep like babies with Ken gone for a month. They killed their smirks before Pat noticed. They weren’t concerned if Ken noticed. He was too self absorbed to see the irony.

Oh, I’ll find something to do to keep me busy. Elle replied as she dabbed her lips and covered her partially full mouth with her napkin. She tried to keep up with the etiquette but it wasn’t in her blood. So she talked through her nearly full mouth and through the napkin covering it. I know I’ll have plenty of reading material.

You can’t read my magazines until I have had a chance to read them myself. You know the rule. John snapped as his eyes rolled.

I know the rules, honey. Elle tried to sound content. But I keep the house and if you don’t put them away, I will put them away for you.

John looked like he was seeing red as he spoke: They are my property and you need to ask before you borrow them. For God’s sakes, you always bend the binding. And you won’t have time to read if you’re going to keep up on the housework while I’m on assignment. I don’t want my wife getting any ideas if she expects her allowance.

Elle just laughed: "Oh, you’re just jealous because I knew what was going to happen in The Suicide Room before I got to the end. It took you until the end to figure it out. And you can’t stop me from having ideas, John. They are in my head and you married it."

"Well for your information, dear wife, the original title of that story was Mystery in Room 913. But your job as my wife is to make sure that the house is tended to. And I expect that in my absence you will honor that…unless, of course you want me to cut your allowance entirely."

Well, then I stand corrected. Elle half-smiled as her jubilance evacuated to make room for misery. It won’t happen again.

Good, I hope it won’t. John nodded as he pulled on his cigarette one more time. He looked at Ken and rolled his eyes. My father told me it was difficult to keep a wife in line. Too bad I didn’t listen more intently.

Elle thought to herself and looked at John: And maybe that’s why your mother went crackers when you were fifteen.

You got that right. Ken agreed. I keep my Pat on a short leash.

Elle thought it best to make the disappointment disappear from her face. There was no need to start an uprising, he’d be on assignment soon enough. So she replaced the disappointment with smiling complacency.

She would never let John know that it was in her blood to be something more than his happy homemaker. Elle felt something for her that extended far beyond this house but John’s world view of her stopped her existence dreadfully short of fulfilling.

Elle defended: I’m still reading them and you can’t stop me, since you leave those magazines lying around all the time. We’ll call it a business bonus. You don’t want me to read your things? Put them away where I can’t find them.

John’s eyes burned a hole through her and she knew that once their company left, she was in for a tongue lashing. But she didn’t’ care. She was enjoying her red velvet and enjoying John’s face turning the same hue as the cake.

Canasta went on for over two hours and it became a battle among battles. Elle silently whispered a word of thanks to God Himself that He finally steered the conversation away from Elle’s mandatory, mundane existence. It was one thing for her to ponder some excitement within the confines of her own mind, but when they were out in the open, it would do nothing more than make her night miserably intolerable with her narrow-minded husband.

Ken grunted and howled at everything in the game. The hands never landed his way. John played in a daze and Pat seemed to be overly anxious about what Ken was doing and what his attitude was. She lived to please the oaf by the minute and it showed disgustingly on her face.

Elle was the lone holdout. She was mightily impressive within a hand of Canasta. It was one of the few times where she was allowed to be a woman who mingled with people her age for something that was more than trading a food recipe, organizing a fundraiser for the Rotary Club or setting up the judging of the local rose bush competition.

Do I hear Orson Welles? Elle looked down at her watch and verified the time. "Oh my, I didn’t realize we were playing for so long. We’re part of the way into The Shadow."

I could listen to his voice all night long. Pat smiled as she placed a cheek in her hand like a girl in love. She stared off into the room where Mr. Welles’ booming, soothing voice crept into her heart, where, ironically enough, there wasn’t a hint of evil to be found.

And don’t think she won’t listen to him all night. Ken blurted out. I’m going to have to compete with Orson Welles and his Mercury Theatre like I do every night. Imagine that! Getting all goo-goo eyed over a voice on the radio.

I like him. John chimed in. The man knows how to narrate a great story.

It’s hypnotic hullabaloo if you ask me. Ken looked at his watch and stood up. He looked right at his wife and talked at her. We need to relieve the sitter. I’m not paying her for another hour if she goes over.

Mary Ellen’s not like that, Ken. Pat smiled and patted him on the arm.

Elle looked on and she knew that Pat was hiding how miserable she really was.

Couples nights were fun but they were rarely honest. With forced etiquette, polite barbs and canned laughter, it was an enjoyable evening where nothing was really said as everything bubbled under the surface. You exchanged the same pleasantries, you laughed at jokes you thought were miserable and you pretended to be happy about living in this suburban utopia. Feelings weren’t fodder for game nights, they were something that you buried deep and let fester until it made you sick.

As far as Elle was officially concerned, Ken was always an amazing individual who commanded respect. Pat was the best friend, and best wife in the world that anyone can be lucky enough to have. John was supportive and ran a good home. And Elle? Elle was a picture-perfect image of domestic bliss.

In reality, behind the forced smiles were resentment, complacency, mountains of male, oafish hubris, honor and plain old chauvinistic duty. They were nice characteristics but they didn’t make for a good game of cards. Game nights were like playing hands of Canasta with one hand while pushing the skeletons back into the closet with the other.

Well we should go. Pat finally said as she got up. And please make sure that you give us a proper good-bye before you leave, John.

I’m heading out tomorrow afternoon. John said as he got up to walk them to the door, followed by Elle.

Well, we’ll host a nice brunch then. Pat smiled. Ten ayem. Our house and we won’t take no for an answer.

Ken smiled and raised a ham fist to John’s back, giving him a friendly pat that bordered on domestic violence. John even managed to let out a small cough.

You two need to have some children so our will have someone to play with before they get too old! Ken laughed a hearty laugh that smelled like a potpourri of pot roast, red velvet cake, cigarettes, wine, cheese, crackers…and garlic. Elle politely covered her nose while he spoke and tried to recall if there was even any garlic in their dinner. There wasn’t.

We’re…talking about it. John said calmly as