Gumshoe

By Robert Sullivan

It’s 1953. Springtime. Eisenhower’s in The White House. Jo Stafford’s riding high on Billboard. Audie Murphy and Jimmy Stewart are stars. The Korean War is finally grinding down. It’s a good time to be an American. It’s a good time to be an ex Gyrene. And it’s a good time to be in the Big Apple. So Renny Mack and Buford Messner, long time army buddies out of Brooklyn, set up as private investigators, pounding the streets of Manhattan. But after two years in business things are on the skids. They’re hanging tough, but the shirt collars are threadbare and the suit pants are shiny. Hard up for a buck, and against their better judgment, they take a case with a dusky beauty.

‘So right now, any business was good business. Right? Wrong! But since when did I take my own advice?’

They should have run a mile, but when Babycakes walked through the door, Renny’s scruples went out the window. And that was before the money hit the table.

‘I‘d just taken a sip o’ yesterday’s rebrew ‘n was all puckered up when she walked through the door. Straight past my secretary. Least, straight past where my secretary woulda been if I’d had a secretary. She was world class. All the dips ‘n curves was in the right places. Hair gleamin’, black as coal, piled high on her head. White shirt the colour o’ sunlit ice. Skirt so tight I could see ‘xactly what she was wearin’, 'n ‘xactly what she wasn’t. Red six-inch stilettos. Lips the colour o’ new blood. Perce started doin’ the watusi.’

Renny and Buford crush their doubts and take the case, but are sucked into a murder investigation that quickly spirals out of control. They lurch from crisis to disaster, racing the clock, the danger escalating by the hour.

‘You. Da black bitch. Out here.” Rocco’s accent was thick ‘n clotted. A cold shiver run down my spine. I felt Aphrodite stiffen, but no-one moved.

“I ain’t askin’ again. Get da bitch out here or I put a bullet in Pineapple Head.”

“Then talk ta me. Forget the lady.” Gunny’s voice was hoarse but firm as he took a step towards Rocco.

CRACK!

Rocco was good as his word ‘n Gunny went down with a thud ‘n a loud ‘Holy Jesus!’ Aphrodite screamed. I tried ta push past Bentwood but he jumped forward at the same time. Rocco waved us back with the gun.

“Someone else lookin’ for an education?” he smirked.’

In a vortex of black Irish pigs, deadly dames, clichéd thugs and exploding Dicks they come finally to the end game. Will they solve the case? Will they even survive it?

‘I made a lot o’ mistakes that mornin', but lookin’ back is always easy. Twenty-twenty ‘n all that. I coulda been smarter, that’s for sure, but Perce was in full cry. Between him ‘n the money, Babycakes carried the day. Me? I was just a passenger.’

*****

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Sullivan
• Release date: Apr 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370833030

Book preview

Gumshoe

A Renny Mack Story

Robert Sullivan

Copyright © 2017 by Robert Sullivan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Babycakes

2. Aphrodite

3. Irish pigs ‘n horror movies

4. Now I ain’t a sensitive guy or nothin’…

5. What is it with dames?

6. Gunny

7. Pink Lemonade

8. Onions

9. Rocco ‘n Chase

10. Apples ‘n sunshine

Babycakes

I‘d just taken a sip o’ yesterday’s rebrew ‘n was all puckered up when she walked through the door. Straight past my secretary. Least, straight past where my secretary woulda been if I’d had a secretary. She was world class. All the dips ‘n curves was in the right places. Skirt so tight I could see ‘xactly what she was wearin’. ‘N ‘xactly what she wasn’t. Hair gleamin’, black as coal, piled high on her head. White shirt the colour o’ sunlit ice. Red six-inch stilettos. Lips the colour o’ new blood. Perce started doin’ the watusi.

Whoever she was she had my attention as she walked in. But hey, no red blooded man coulda called that walkin’. When she sat down the stitchin’ on her skirt performed over ‘n above. Perce started strivin’ for world domination. ‘N when she crossed her legs I thought I was gonna pass out. But I’m a professional. I kept a straight face ‘n maintained eye contact. Gunny woulda been proud.

I shoulda known o’ course. Nothin’ that good comes walkin’ inta a two bit, fly blown pad lookin’ for down ‘n out PIs. It don’t work that way. I coulda saved myself ‘n Buford a whole lotta grief by just sayin’ No Dice! Trouble was, Perce was doin’ the thinkin’.

She was smilin’. A funny little smile. Must be that Bugs Bunny statue on the end o’ the desk. Bugs doin’ somethin’ with a carrot. The carrot had ‘Pecos’ written on it. Not the sort o’ thing I’d ever look at, let alone buy. But my brother-in-law Harly gave it ta me. Harly’s a long distance trucker. Don’t mean ta insult the Teamsters but say no more.

But I’m getting’ ahead o’ myself as Ma always says. So I better fill ya in on Buf ‘n me. ‘N how come we was sittin’ on the 5th floor, no lift, in Harvey Weinstein’s old buildin’ in the garment district in Manhattan. Actually, there is a lift. But it’s been busted the whole time we been here. Harvey’s argument is that if Buford ‘n me is the only tenants, we should pay for its repair. Sure Harvey. But it don’t cut the mustard amigo. If we had the money ta repair the lift we’d be moving somewhere else. Somewhere with a lift that worked. I ask ya. But hey, that’s why Harvey’s Harvey. It’s why he’s one o’ the richest guys on the lower east side. Every day’s an opportunity for Harvey, every meetin’ has dollar signs. I figured if I stuck close enough for long enough, maybe a little bit o’ Harvey’s smarts was gonna rub off. But Buf says if it ain’t in the blood ya wastin’ ya time.

My name, full name that is, is Thomas Reinhard Mack. T.R Mack. Born 14 March 1922, in Brooklyn. Age 31 at the time o’ tellin’ this story. Father, William Macy Mack. Mother, Dainty Belvoir Simmons. Yep! I’m a Brooklyner. So all ya palooka’s just keep ya lids on. Everyone calls me Renny. Everyone ‘cept my partner in crime so ta speak, Buford Messner, who calls me Tarmac. For obvious reasons. Or when he’s havin’ a bad day, Roadkill. Buford normally has several bad days each week. He’s got a weakness for the ponies ‘n the pooches ‘n a bad night at the track means a bad attitude next day. Buf also fancies himself as an actor, though he prefers ta call himself a ‘thespian’. I had ta look it up. I guess he did look a little like Bogie, ‘least in the hair department, but he said he had ‘an affinity with Laurence Olivier.’ I always liked Errol Flynn myself. Buford said I was shaller.

We grew up tagether in Flat Bush, not far from the Dodgers’ ground at Ebbets Field. By the time the war rolled ‘round, ‘n Uncle Sam wanted some help with the Jerries, we was old enough ta enlist. Ma was upset, sure, but she didn’t say much. Buford’s mother bawled for days. She was certain her baby, he was the youngest o’ five ya know, was gonna get killed. I coulda told her not ta worry. Buf grew up tough in Brooklyn so no way was Jerry gonna pop him. Or me for that matter. Mind ya, we was only 20 at the time, so the concept o’ mortality wasn’t high on the agenda. We quietened down some after D-Day ‘n the Bulge. But that’s another story.

We demobbed in mid ’46 ‘n landed back in Brooklyn with army pay ‘n a strange feelin’ we’d missed out. Like the world passed us by or somethin’. Buford went straight back ta Mr Zim’s garage where he was the grease jockey. I went back ta helpin’ Dad in the plumbin’ business. Four years o’ takin’ Jerry’s shit ‘n now I’m takin’ all o’ Yonkers. Go figure. This went on for more’n four years, but we wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Mr Zim wasn’t never gonna let Buford get ahead o’ his nephew Arvi, Arvi was a turd by the way, ‘n Dad was groomin’ Kenny ta take over as head plumber. I was always gonna be the one goin’ down the pipe.

So me ‘n Buf got tagether. We figured there had ta be somethin’ we could do. Somethin’ paid better ‘n what we was earnin’ workin’ for Dad ‘n Mr Zip. We was strong young guys. It didn’t take us long ta come up with an idea. It sounded good, ‘n yeah, maybe we was a bit over-excited, but hey, Mack & Messner, Private Investigators. Whatya think?

Ya shoulda heard the wailin’ when we told the folks. Ya woulda thought we was goin’ back ta war. Or movin’ ta California. Or Australia. Ya know that’s how parents think. Buf’s mother was distraught. Yep, that’s what she said. ‘Bout her baby’s security. Old Zip couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. Arvi thought it was funny too. ‘Til Buford threatened him with the grease gun.

My folks was supportive. Well Ma was, but Dad didn’t cut me no slack. Heck, when did that ever happen? I busted a gut for fifteen years. But didn’t matter what I did. Didn’t count. Took him two days ta say hello after we got back from Germany. Then after Dad get’s his dollar’s worth in, ‘long comes Doris. Just what the heck it had ta do with her anyhow is beyond me. For the life o’ me I never understood why Harly married her. But then I never understood why she married Harly neither. Ma always says opposites attract. Whatever.

We set up nearly two years ago, April o’ ’51, springtime in the city. We figured that’d be the time when heartstrings started ta flutter; eyes started ta wander, big business for Mack & Messner. And it was. But not for long. ‘Cause dreams is always a little tougher in the doin’. Ain’t that the truth. After twelve months things slowed down. Big time. Everyone musta been keepin’ their pants zipped ‘cause there wasn’t no business comin’ our way. ‘N now, after another year o’ hand ta mouth, we was havin’ second thoughts. Sure, we still got a buzz outa handin’ out cards ‘n try’na impress the broads. But there was less ‘n less broads I could afford ta impress. ‘N I was runnin’ outa cards. So right now, any business was good business. Right? Wrong! But since when did I take my own advice?

So ya startin’ ta get a feel for me ‘n Buf ‘n ya askin’ yaself What’s a grease jockey ’n a plumber doin’ playin’ gumshoe? Well, as they say, truth is stranger than fiction. Truth is the basic principles in all businesses is pretty much the same. Ya got a customer, ya give him service. Ya might be a plumber, ‘n they wants pipe laid, ‘n I ain’t bein’ cute here, ya lay some pipe. Ya might be a Private Dick ,‘n someone wants someone else found, ya find ‘em. But sometimes ya stickin’ ya beak in where it ain’t wanted. More’n a few times I took a swipe from a findee. ‘Specially the broads. One thing I learned is a dame goes missin’ she often means it, ‘n she ain’t too pleased when a pasty faced youngster in a pork pie ‘n pin stripe turns up care o’ the ex. Ain’t nothin’ surer ta get ya the cold shoulder.

I gave her the once over again. What a cupcake. She had clear dusky skin ‘n dark eyes. Foreign. Italian maybe? What was she doin’ here?

You can maybe light my zigarette? Her voice was soft and deep with a strong accent.

Not Italian. Spanish? Or maybe South American I thought as I leaned forward ‘n snapped the lighter under her cigarette. Her hands was perfect. Long brown fingers, nails same colour as her lipstick. They didn’t shake one bit. This patootie was cool as a cucumber. My hands? They was shakin’ like leaves. As she leaned towards the flame her shirt gaped, givin’ me a peep at two o’ the best pineapples God ever breathed life inta, I tell ya. Perce mighta given up on world domination but he still had his eye on a continent or two. I saw her track my gaze as she drew on the cigarette. She regarded me in silence, the smoke blue in the still air. I took another quick peek at her chest. Mama!

You are Meester Mack? It was a statement, not a question, so I zipped the lip. I always like broads ta sing for their supper. Yeah, sure. Really I was just tryin’ not ta slobber. When I didn’t answer she nodded. I ‘ave been referred to you. I felt my eyebrows crawl up my forehead. Since when was we a referral business?

But per’aps I should tell you what I need. I could tell from the way she said this that she wasn’t expectin’ no for ‘n answer. ‘N I already knew why that was. It is a long story so you could maybe make me some coffee. She didn’t even pout. I went lookin’ for a clean cup ‘n yesterday’s brew. If I thought it’d faze her I was wrong. She took a healthy slurp, the pink tongue flickered, Perce did a double pike with twist, ‘n she started.

* * *

It was a good story. She was Argentinian. Her name was Alessandra Aguirre. Ya think the name’s beautiful, ya should see the broad. Grew up poor on the banks o’ the La Plata. Come ta New York from Buenos Aires straight after the war. When she said she was part o’ the Prancey family in lower Manhattan my ears pricked up. The Prancey’s was old money so it couldn’t be them. Or could it? If it was then she’d lucked out. She woulda needed somethin’ goin’ for her. I watched her as she talked. She had a lot goin’ for her. Believe me.

Turned out it was the old money Pranceys she was talkin’ ‘bout. A Cinderella story if ya like. She come ta New York with her cousin Guillermo, worked in his caterin’ business in Jersey for a few months before she was picked up by the Pranceys. She worked for ‘em for just a year before she catches the eye o’ one o’ the Prancey males. Next thing she’s gettin’ married. Things is goin’ like a dream, weekends in the Hamptons, socializin’ in Manhattan ’n Boston, trips ta Bermuda ‘n so on, when hubby goes ‘n gets himself killed. When she mentioned her husband died in a house fire the bells was ringin’.

‘Bout six months earlier, Richard Prancey, known in the tabloids as ‘Prancing Dick’ or ‘Randy Ricky’ dependin’ on the editor’s spleen, had been killed in a gas explosion at his summer house up Long Island. From all reports ‘n accident. Young Ricky was well known. He cut a swathe through the debutantes in Manhattan ‘n Boston for twenty years, never snared ‘til he met Miss Argentina. I looked at her with new interest. So she was Prancin’ Dick’s wife. He musta been mid forties when he died, so maybe ten years older ‘n her? Ya know I ain’t often wrong ‘bout someone’s age. One thing I learned early is if dames start talkin’ age always make ya best guess then subtract five ta ten. Do this religiously ’n it’s a winner. If ya got any doubts make it ten ta fifteen. They know ya lyin’ but they love it. Better safe than sorry as Ma always says.

From all reports Young Ricky, apart from bein’ a notorious womanizer, had also been a rebel. Which prob’ly explained the Argentinian wife. Nothin’ like goin’ outside the family circle if ya wanta shoot the bird. Ricky Senior had long since departed but Mrs Ricky Senior was still ‘round. ‘N she ruled with an iron fist accordin’ ta the weeklies. I vaguely recalled somethin’ ‘bout a pre-nup. Which is somethin’ all them celebrities seem ta need. Ta protect their assets apparently. When this thought crossed my mind I tore my eyes away from the Aguirre hemline. I didn’t know what she wanted but I hoped she wasn’t thinkin’ ‘pro-bono’. Buf would vomit. Assumin’ he ate first o’ course.

But I needn’ta worried. She said she needed an investigator’s report ta finalise the insurance claim for hubby’s fiery demise. Now insurance companies got their own investigators. I know that. Since when did they need a private dick’s report for anything? Weird. But I didn’t smell no rat. Well, maybe I didn’t sniff too hard neither. With them bazookas pointin’ at me, her lips on the cigarette, ‘n Perce gettin’ all over twitchy, I was a gone goose. Even before she mentioned money.

Babycakes leaned forward ‘n stubbed out her cigarette, her eyes bright through the smoke. We were not ..’ow you say it…’appy with the police report. It was very brief. My ‘usband was a successful man, with much money invested in property. In the last years he work very close with the unions. She pronounced it ‘onions’. We would like you to investigate a little of the union. It is called, I think, the Union of Water Workers. Actually it wasn’t. It was called The Waterside Workers Union. I’d heard ‘bout ‘em but didn’t know much. Just they had a lot o’ muscle. ‘N they wasn’t afraid ta use it.

Mrs Prancey. I’m gonna need a little more information before I can take the case. Would ya mind if I take a few notes?

Babycakes reached for her cigarettes ‘n waved me off at the same time. Please.

She spoke for maybe thirty minutes while I made notes on names, addresses ‘n phone numbers. I felt a bit sensitive askin’ her ‘bout the accident ‘cause ya never know how people is gonna react. I mean, sometimes they’re grievin’, they don’t like relivin’ the memories. But it wasn’t no trouble for Babycakes. Only thing was, every now ‘n then she’d uncross ‘n recross her legs. The office was pretty quiet ‘n when she did this all I could hear was silk on silk. I was try’na look serious but I was havin’ real trouble with Perce.

I was a bit confused by the time we finished. I mean, ya husband’s just been blown ta kingdom come or wherever, ain’t ya gonna be focused on how he died? Well, I woulda thought so. But all Babycakes talked ‘bout was Ricky’s cohorts (I learned that off Buford in case ya wonderin’), in particular the WWU ‘n the UPG. She seemed ta think that they was the worm in the apple. She didn’t come right out ‘n say they was dirty or nothin’, didn’t pin nothin’ on ‘em neither, but she wanted me ta look at ‘em ‘n report back. While I was writin’ all this down I was thinkin’ ‘Report back on what?’

My ‘usband was…how you say it…a good man. I do not think the union treated him very well. But she didn’t offer more.

So we are agreed. You will do for me a report I think. Today is Monday so I would like a report in two weeks. But I will come to see you in one week. I will come in at four o’clock and you can tell me what you ‘ave learned. Her voice was smoke in a dark room. She hesitated ‘n reached inta her purse. She pulled out a thick, buff coloured envelope ‘n dropped it on the desk. It landed with a solid thud. But I’m a professional. I ignored it. Like it wasn’t burnin’ a hole in the desktop. Or my pocket.

My mother-in-law, she said you would require… a retainer. She pronounced it ret-ar-nor. Now how many o’ those ya think we seen in the past two years? Correct! Zee-roh! Zip, zilch, nix, nada, nothin’! Right now, if she’s talkin’ money, she’s talkin’ my language.

I musta been starin’ at the envelope ‘cause when I looked up she was doing that funny little smile again. But maybe it was Bugs. Then I remembered that I hadn’t asked who referred her. Buf ‘n I done a few good jobs, that was true, but wasn’t none of ‘em clients moved in same circles as this broad. I shoulda run a mile when she told me who it was.

Your good friend the detective said you were the best. My good friend the detective? That’s a joke, right? Sort o’ like ‘military intelligence’ ya know what I mean. ‘is name is, I think, Duffee. I felt my eyebrows crawl up my forehead. Again. Duffy? Sendin’ business our way? Why the fuck would that miserable mick asshole send us anything? Does she think I’m a total sap? But she ain’t smilin’. She ain’t jokin’ neither. I took another peep at the money ‘n smothered my doubts. Second big mistake. I made a lot o’ mistakes that mornin', but lookin’ back is always easy. Twenty-twenty ‘n all that. I coulda been smarter, that’s for sure, but Perce was in full cry. Between him ‘n the money, Babycakes carried the day. Me? I was just a passenger.

* * *

First thing I did when she left was grab the envelope. When I flipped it open my heart flipped over with it. Had ta be three gorillas. No questions asked. I held the notes under my nose. Mr Weinstein was gonna love me.

Second thing I did was talk ta Buford. He was workin’ for a car dealer down East 65th. Abraham Lubovski. Abe ran a Chevy dealership ‘n seemed his profit margin was shrinkin’. Now remember, ya got a car dealer complainin’ ‘bout his profit margin ya need ta keep it in perspective. But it turned out Mikey Gee was the perp. Mikey was one o’ Abe’s salesmen, good lookin’, sharp talkin’, slicked down hair, black ‘n white wingtips, wouldn’t trust him with ya Granma. Mikey was sellin’ lotsa cars all right. And lotsa extras. Floor mats, carpets, pop roofs, chrome fenders, heaters ‘n so on. But not all the extras was findin’ their way inta Abe’s wallet. So Buf was doin’ the deal today. One o’ Abe’s cronies was buyin’ a new Bel Air with everything. Buf said Mikey was fit ta bust. I guess he was already at the track with a dame on each arm ‘n a fist full o’ Panamas. Jerk! Anyhow, Buf ‘n Abe had already compared the crony’s paperwork with Mikey’s. Seemed the crony was payin’ for stuff that Mikey wasn’t sellin’. Well, not outa Abe’s storeroom if ya believed the paperwork. But no one’s that stupid. Least not for long. Today Mikey gets his ticket ta ride.

When I picked Buf up outside Abe’s car yard he had that smug, stuffed look, the one he gets when he’s