The Dummy Case

By Satalic

P.I. Joe Ganzer couldn’t refuse when an elderly puppet maker asks him to locate a magician who owes money for one of his renowned puppets. Little did Ganzer know he would end up the only suspect in the magician's murder. A relentless Chicago Police manhunt forces Ganzer to go undercover.

His two operatives—a former grifter and a part-time jazz sideman—do their best to help but soon start to think the police might be after the right guy after all.

The FBI shows up after fingerprints lifted by the cops at the murder scene come back marked “Classified--Name Withheld.”

Joe Ganzer has one hope—find who killed the magician...and why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Satalic
• Release date: May 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780989034630

Satalic

I'm from Chicago. I love its people and its inspiring, flamboyant, and often violent history. Sandburg called it "City of the Big Shoulders," a working man's town. Nelson Algren wrote: "It's always been an artist's town and it's always been a torpedo's town...."My stories take place in this Windy City. The latest is THE DUMMY CASE, the next Joe Ganzer mystery due out in mid-May 2018. My previous novel RETURN OF THE FALCON is a 1946 mystery/thriller roller coaster that takes the reader from Chicago to London and ends dramatically in Montréal.In non-fiction, I had great fun writing THE MASQUE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE about the identity of the Bard and came to a startling conclusion.I'm currently working on a prequel to RETURN OF THE FALCON, which follows Joe Ganzer in his exploits during World War II as an OSS Intelligence Agent.

Book preview

Chapter 1

April 1947

SOUTH CHICAGO

Jos. Ganzer Investigations

Joe sat behind his desk, feet up on the windowsill, watching a pair of sparrows dance in the air, swirling, diving, swooping, a secret choreography known only to sparrows. Mr. Peeples sat by motionless, a black silhouette against the late morning sun, enraptured by their strange ballet, and from deep within him came a murmur, like heavy voices at the end of a bar, garbled, barely audible.

The intercom buzzed and startled Joe. He swung his feet around. The sparrows fluttered, scattered, high into the sky, and Mr. Peeples leapt to the floor, making a hasty but graceful retreat down the back stairs to the landlord's office on the first floor, his daily visit brought to an unexpected end.

Yeah? said Joe.

A thin metallic voice came over the intercom, Joe…You gotta see this.

What is it, Wilma?

It's a client……I think.

Has he got a gun?

No…it’s not a gun, she said.

Well, show him in.

Wilma Murphy looked over at him and said, Come with me, Mr. Marshall. Frank Marshall rose slowly from his seat beside her desk. He towered over Wilma. She grinned, And bring your little friend.

Oh, I couldn't leave him alone with someone as beautiful as you. Wilma smiled at the ashen-haired man, turned, and walked to the door with Private painted on frosted glass. He followed behind her, struggling to conceal his limp. She opened the door and leaned in.

Joe, this is Mr. Frank Marshall……and friend.

Joe stumbled over the waste basket as he swung around his desk to meet his two guests. With a broad smile and his right hand extended, Joe said, How do you do, Mr. Marshall? I'm Joe Ganzer. Joe shook Marshall's huge left hand as it extended from beneath his wooden friend’s legs. Joe’s eyebrows raised at the power in his left hand and could only imagine what Marshall’s right hand could deliver, now secreted away in the back of this boy-like creation. Please have a seat, said Joe and moved aside to sit on the edge of his desk.

Frank Marshall said, Thank you, and lumbered over to sit in the overstuffed chair in front of Joe's desk. He wore an older man’s clothes, neat, practical, and showing perhaps too much wear. His little companion had on a boy’s suit complete with a white shirt and tie, as though he were on his way to Sunday service.

Wilma winked at Joe as she closed the door.

And who is this? Joe asked, still smiling and pointing at the diminutive wooden character now perched on Marshall's knee. Joe marveled at the gentle but mischievous smile on this wooden boy’s face and his bright eyes and ruddy complexion, the delicate creation of a master craftsman.

Well, he doesn't have a name yet, said Marshall, but he's, in essence, the reason I’m here today.

Joe laughed, He is? Now what kind of trouble could he be in and how can I help?

In the worst ventriloquism, Marshall cocked the wooden boy’s head and had him give a little laugh and say, Brother, you should know the trouble I’ve seen.

Marshall responded, Why, you haven’t been in trouble at all, young man.

Hey, pops, said the wooden boy, I’m just gettin’ started.

Joe laughed politely.

It's not him exactly, Mr. Ganzer. It's a brother of his, another figure or puppet I created. The owner hasn't paid me for him, he lifted the wooden boy slightly, adjusting him on his lap, and I'm not able to get a line on him.

The smile dropped from Joe's face. Mr. Marshall, I’m really sorry, but I don't do bill collection, and even if I did, I don't think you could afford me.

Frank Marshall lowered his eyes, adjusted his glasses, and looked at the floor then back at the wooden boy. Oh, dear, I hardly don't know what to do now.

Now hold on, Joe said, the smile returning, "maybe I can help. My landlord, Albert Strugala, on the first floor, is a lawyer. I can introduce you, and maybe I can even get him to lower his fee. That is, if he takes your case."

Marshall shook his head slowly. That won't do, Mr. Ganzer. And softly he repeated, It just won't do.

Please call me Joe, and tell me why Strugala can't help you. He's one of the finest lawyers in Chicago.

It's not that. It's just that-. He broke off and moved heavily to get up and leave.

Wait, wait, Mr. Marshall, pleaded Joe. Why can't a good lawyer help? Strugala will have that guy in court in under a week.

Marshall sat back down. He pursed his lips briefly, his mustache touching his nostrils, and said, You see, Joe, he's nowhere to be found. He's simply disappeared.

Disappeared? What's his name?

You may have heard of him. His stage name is Lucius Zagar.

Joe wrinkled his brow and said, "Vaguely. Saw something about him in the papers. Isn’t he called The Great Zagar?

No, he is The Amazing Zagar.

Oh, sorry, said Joe. Then he remembered something. But I thought he was a magician.

He is, but some time back Zagar added a ventriloquism routine to his act. It went over so well, he decided to have me carve a unique character just for his show, one that would become a permanent member of his troupe. Much like this one I brought here today.

Demonstrating his craftsmanship, Marshall manipulated the wooden boy, used a lever to open his mouth and another to give Joe a wink, and with the same bad ventriloquism, lips moving, in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, had the puppet say, We’re all part of the wood pile.

Joe laughed and said, What an amazing work of art, a marvelous creation. So well carved and so lifelike. What a wondrous dummy.

Frank Marshall knitted his eyebrows and said firmly, I never call them dummies. Never at all.

I’m sorry. I meant no disrespect.

I understand, said Marshall a smile appeared. Not everyone is as attached as I am to my creations. You see, these are like my children. I have created them with my own hands. I personally could never call them ‘dummies’ nor will I permit anyone else to. Please call them figures.

Okay, ‘figures’ it is.

Thank you, said Marshall and with a brief sigh added, Ventriloquists, and people in the business, always refer to them as ‘figures.’ Only the public calls them dummies. I suppose that stems from vaudeville, where many of the ventriloquists had their characters play fools of one sort or another.

This character looks nothing like a fool.

Oh, no, said Marshall. Not my work. That is, unless the ventriloquist wants a comical character. Zagar wanted a spirited, intelligent, even sassy, young man. He was building an act where this figure would spoil whatever illusion or prestidigitation ‘The Amazing Zagar’ was trying to execute. It would all be great fun. I even built a special control to keep both of the figure’s eyes closed in a hypnosis skit he was working on. Let me show you.

Marshall closed the figure’s eyes, but unlike a doll’s eyes rolling within the sockets, instead lifelike eyelids came down over the eyes. He smiled and said, See, Zagar wanted to leave the figure in a trance, perhaps sitting in a chair or whatever, while he performed some other magic and then return to him and resume their dialog. So I had to invent a way to keep the eyelids closed while he walked away.

Joe was impressed and delighted. I understand completely. It does sound like you could have great fun with that, doesn’t it?

Indeed, but it seems The Amazing Zagar has, himself, disappeared.

When was the last time you saw or spoke to Zagar?

Let’s see…his figure was completed over two months ago, and I called him at the theater. So it has been at least two months. He paused, thinking…Ah, yes, two months at the least.

What was your last conversation? asked Joe, beginning to take an interest in the case.

Well, I told him the figure was complete and that I thought he would be very happy with him. He said he would stop by my place when his current engagement ended in a few days. He came and picked up his figure, claiming he would pay me in a week. But I never heard from him again.

Joe asked, How long did you wait before checking up on him?

Well, I was a little anxious to receive my payment, so I called him at the theater a week later.

Not there?

No, the manager said he had left quite abruptly after his last performance for another booking somewhere in Wisconsin.

Did he say where in Wisconsin?

I asked, of course, but he didn’t know. Once a performer completes his last date, the manager is not concerned with his next engagement.

I see, said Joe, wrinkling his brow, and you haven’t heard from him since?

Not a word.

How much did he owe you?

Marshall hesitated, not wanting to reveal what he receives for creating a figure, Let’s just say it’s a considerable amount…at least to me.

Appreciating his caution, Joe asked again, Give me some idea of the amount we’re talking about.

For the average person it would be the equivalent of four month’s salary.

Joe’s eyes lit up, That’s quite a bit of money, not that you haven’t earned it.

Mr. Ganzer, I worked hard on his figure, and this is an art.

I understand, said Joe, putting his index finger to his lips, added, I think maybe Zagar skipped on you?

Perhaps his bookings were growing slack. He wanted to add the figure to his routine to invigorate his act, give him a little extra. Perhaps, I don’t know….

Why didn’t you get a bill collector to chase after Zagar or a lawyer like I suggested? Why choose a private investigator? And why choose me?

"Show business is unlike any other. You’re dealing with egos and sensitive personalities, but most of all, show people are insecure about everything…their talent, their appearance, their success or lack of it. Bill collectors are so crass and, at times, so ruthless they would surely bruise that sensitive ego. I did not want a reputation that involved harming a talent. As for a lawyer, well it’s only been two months per se, and a lawyer seems so, I don’t know, so legal. That leaves a private investigator because they are, by definition, private and show discretion. And why you? Well, to tell the truth, you are the closest to my home and workshop. I cannot drive and have to take cabs wherever I go."

Joe laughed and said, An artist who’s practical. Quite a combination.

Thinking he had to explain, Marshall said, I am well paid for the figures I create, but I don’t get all that many commissions, you see; so I have to be frugal.

I follow, said Joe, still with a smile on his face. I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll run a trace on Lucius Zagar, aka The Amazing Zagar, and see what I can turn up for you.

Oh, thank you, Joe. Thank you.

But that’s the extent of it. I’m not going to run this guy down and collect any money.

I suppose it will have to do. Will your services be costly?

Not too much. How about I save you some money right off the bat and drive you back home?

Marshall turned to his figure: That would be most appreciated, don’t you think? The figure nodded enthusiastically and squeaked out, Good, work, Marshall, there’s one born every minute.

Joe played along, Looks like I’m the dummy.

***

Joe opened the passenger door of his Chevy, but Frank Marshall had a difficult time entering while holding the figure. He turned to Joe, Would you mind holding him while I get settled?

Joe reached out for the figure, Wow, this is quite an honor and a thrill. Joe held the puppet gingerly with his left arm under the legs and his hand holding the head’s control stick. Joe felt a lever with his right thumb. He pulled it down. The mouth of the figure opened, and Joe laughed.

Joe moved the mouth lever again, and in the world’s sorriest ventriloquist voice, with his lips moving worse than Marshall’s, he made the figure say, Watch your step, Mr. Marshall.

Ahh, I see you have a natural talent, Joe.

Yeah, said Joe. I’d better stick to investigation.

An astute observation.

Joe smiled, handed the figure back to Marshall, and walked around to the driver’s side. Once in, he turned to Marshall and asked, Where are we heading?

I live at 5518 South Loomis. Do you know where that is?

Not too far from my apartment.

Where is that?

Near the University of Chicago, on Drexel.

You know the way, and I can enjoy the view.

Sure, said Joe as he pulled away from the curb and headed north to catch Lake Shore Drive. I’ll take the scenic route.

I don’t often get a chance to see the lake, what with my work and all.

Joe thought, He means his leg. He’s too young for the first World War and too old for the second. Could be an accident.

Are you married, Mr. Marshall?

No, I’m afraid not. After all these years I don’t think it will happen.

Oh, I don’t know about that.

Marshall frowned, I can’t get out much, as you must know.

What happened? asked Joe, sensing Marshall needed to explain.

I was stricken with polio as a child. It affected the nerves of my leg.

I have a friend at the University of Chicago, a doctor involved in medical research, and he claims they are going to defeat that disease someday.

I should be grateful I’m even alive, but I’m not. This disability has taken a great deal from me-- Marshall broke off and added with barely a smile, "But I do have many children," lifting up his puppet momentarily.

Joe said, What an incredible talent you have, Mr. Marshall.

Thank you, and please call me Frank.

Okay, Frank.

The basement of my home is my workshop. If you care to come in, I could show you some of my other work. That is, if you have the time. I know you must be busy.

I’ll make time.

Good…,said Marshall, and they drove leisurely along the lake shore, toward 55th Street, enjoying views of Lake Michigan.

Before 55th Street, Joe slowed down, pointed to the east, toward the lake, and said, Promontory Point.

I have heard of it but not ever seen it.

The Point was made from landfill and is protected by a seawall. It has these huge limestone blocks that make up four steps down to the water’s edge. When I want to think, I go there and sit and simply watch the lake. My apartment is not too far away.

It’s a might cold for that today.

Yeah, today I’d sit in the bar and listen to the Sox game. Joe turned west on 55th Street. When they passed Stagg Field, Joe pointed to his left and said, Right there, Frank, is where the atomic bomb was born.

Not all that impressive, is it?

Joe glanced at Marshall and said, I suppose the results were. He turned back to the street, adding, It brought an abrupt and welcome end to a long and terrible conflict at an equally terrible cost.

And Joe fell silent for a time, until they merged onto Garfield Boulevard, still heading west. We’ll be there shortly.

They turned south on Loomis Boulevard for a half block. Joe pulled over and parked right in front of 5518, a modest red-brick two-flat with a wooden porch and an iron fence guarding a patch of grass you couldn’t even lie down on. It had an asymmetric three-sided curved bay extending to the roof, each flat having three windows in the bay, a budget Queen Anne and Italianate style.

Marshall opened his car door and with some effort held his figure and exited rather gracefully. Joe ran around to his side and closed the door behind him. I’m on the first floor, said Marshall and handed Joe the figure as they walked toward the steps. Watch your step. There’s a loose board, one down from the top.

Thanks, I wouldn’t want to drop this little guy, said Joe as he too climbed the stairs carrying the figure.

Marshall unlocked the door and waited for Joe and his creation to enter. He shut it behind them. Would you like some coffee? offered Marshall.

Don’t bother, Frank.

No, no, he said. I have some left from this morning. I’ll heat it up.

Joe winced.

Have a seat here in the living room, said Frank, and lay him down on the couch there, if you would.

Joe gently rested the figure on the seat of a worn couch on the far wall. The three windows in the bay let the morning sunlight in. He turned around to see Marshall lumber into the kitchen at the end of a long hallway. Joe sat on the opposing couch, waiting. The walls were bare except for two small sepia-toned photographs of a couple with an infant and the same couple, sometime later, with a young girl and infant.

After a few minutes, Marshall returned with a small floral-painted metal tray with two coffee cups and sugar and milk. Sorry, I only have milk. No cream. He set the tray on the rectangular coffee table.

That’s fine. Joe took a cup and added some sugar and a little milk, just as insurance. He sipped it slowly. Hey, this is pretty good.

I’m glad you like it. Old family recipe.

I make the worst coffee in Chicago. Tell me what’s your secret.

Well, my mother put washed out eggshells in with the coffee grounds. It seems to tame the bitterness, don’t you think? I also add a little salt.

I’ll give that a try.

They drank their coffee and talked about the spring weather, both glad after a long Chicago winter. Marshall said, Joe, would you like to see my workshop now and my other creations?

I sure would.

Pointing to the figure beside him on the couch, Frank Marshall said, Would you mind grabbing him? We’ll go downstairs.

Joe picked up the figure and followed Marshall as he entered the hallway alongside the living room to a door and descended steep stairs to the basement. Marshall opened the door at the bottom and tuned on several lights. Joe was right behind him.

Instead of a musty smell, Joe inhaled the fragrance of bass wood and oil paint. At the end of the basement was a long heavy wooden bench with two strong wooden vises at either end. Frank Marshall made it to the bench and took a seat on a tall padded wooden stool. He turned on more lights.

Bright down here, said Joe, still holding the figure.

Here, I’ll take him. Marshall took the figure from Joe and turned and hung him from a hook, one of many, along the brick foundation wall. Each hook had a different figure hanging from it with different expressions and hair and clothes, like a row of comical soldiers at attention. One figure was a freckle-faced girl with pigtails, another tousled-haired impish boy, and yet another a bald-headed old man, all lining the wall.

Pointing to the figures, Marshall said, They keep me company when I’m working late, as I often do.

Joe looked around in amazement. On the opposing wall were as many as twenty marionettes, each a distinct character. There were villainous scoundrels and beautiful damsels in long dresses and palace guards in silver armor and ballerinas in white tutus and trolls in long hair and animal hides, even a full set of Punch and Judy characters. Frank, I had no idea, and you created all these?

All these and many, many more.

Amazing, simply amazing.

Why, thank you.

Joe pointed to the figure Marshall had with him earlier at his office, now hanging on the wall, You know, Frank, he sure looks like Charlie McCarthy.

An impish smile flashed across Marshall’s face, Well, in a way, they are brothers.

Joe’s eyes opened wide, his eyebrows arched. You mean you’re the guy who carved Charlie McCarthy?

Yes and no.

Now I’m confused.

Marshall laughed. Edgar Bergen came to the Mack & Son Woodworking Shop to have a figure carved, you see. That’s where I worked back then. I was in charge of all puppet making and Charles Mack, the son, did all the ornamental and architectural carving but only part-time. He spent most of his time managing his bar, and once a day he would stop in the shop to see how we were doing. His father, Theodore Mack, was already in a nursing home. Shaking his head, Marshall added, Chronic hepatitis and senility.

Joe said, So, Edgar Bergen actually came into the Mack & Son’s and bought Charlie McCarthy right off the shelf?

Oh, heavens no, Marshall said. Bergen met with Charles Mack at his bar. I’m surprised they even let him in. He was only, maybe, sixteen years old at the time. So, Charles brought him around the shop, and they discussed the kind of figure he wanted. Usually Charles’ father, Theodore, did that, but he was ill, like I said. In fact, he died a year later……

He sighed and said, You know, he and Louis, his brother, took me in as their apprentice when I was a little younger than Bergen. I’ll never forget. It was a long time ago.

How did you come to meet them?

You’ve heard of The Great Lester?

"Of course, my dad took me to see him perform with his dummy―I mean figure―when I was maybe six years old."

Marshall said, Why he was the greatest ventriloquist of all time―including Bergen. He laughed. Now, my family lived next door to the Czajkowski family, the real-life son of The Great Lester. You know, The Great Lester’s real name was Marian Czajkowski.

"What’s your real name Frank?"

How did you―? Marshall stopped, then chuckled. Of course, you’re a detective. It’s Frank Marzalkiewicz. I know what you’re thinking: Why the change?

Joe nodded. I know why.

Oh…, Marshall continued, Now where was I?

You were talking about your apprenticeship and The Great Lester.

Ah… so I was. Well, I was infected with polio as a child, as I mentioned in the car. He glanced at his leg. "Lester’s son told him about me and my condition. Providence, I suppose, but Lester came over and introduced himself to my parents and said perhaps he could help me get a trade. See, he knew the Macks very well. He made them famous in a way.

A few years earlier he asked the Macks if they could carve a figure for him. The Macks were quite well known among architects and designers for their carving, and Lester thought they could fashion a figure for him to his liking, which they did. Lester named him Frank Byron, Jr., and the rest is history, as they say. Word got out in vaudeville about where The Great Lester had his figure carved, and every ventriloquist on the circuit wanted a ‘Mack.’

Joe asked, But how’d that help you?

Lester took me to their shop one day and introduced me and asked if I could work and learn from them, explaining this would be good rehabilitation for me. And it was. And I am forever grateful to Theodore and Louis Mack.

A good break for you, Frank. Life could have been a lot different.

Marshall paused for a moment and continued, "After my apprenticeship, the Macks eventually turned over nearly all the puppet making to me, which gave them time for their ornamental work."

I can see why, said Joe, admiring all the works hanging on the basement wall. No offense, but, as I remember it, The Great Lester’s figure looked nothing like these and nothing like Charlie McCarthy.

"Lester’s figure, Frank Byron, Jr., looked, well, not to my standards, nothing like my work today. I want lifelike expressions and genuine character. To that end, I choose whatever is most authentic, like prosthetic glass eyes; and all my figures have real human-hair wigs.

But getting back to Bergen…for such a young man, he certainly knew what he wanted. He had drawn sketches of this brash young Irish newsboy he knew here in the city, near his home I think. Charles had me make a clay model head from them. He showed the model to Bergen. They talked over some minor changes here and there, and young Edgar gave the ‘go ahead’. Marshall smiled and looked over at Joe…waiting.

Frank, I know guys who have gone to prison for bad puns like that.

I couldn’t help it. Grant me a pardon.

I’ll call the governor.

Okay, thanks. Marshall laughed and reached across his work bench on the wall and said, So we took one of these. He grabbed a crude head of sorts mounted on a heavy dowel. Something like this.

Now I know where the term ‘block head’ comes from, Joe said and slyly smiled.

I should think one would get a good stretch in prison for such wordplay. Don’t you?

Joe had a way of relating to people, making them feel at ease, whether a high brow or a grifter, as if they were in the company of an old friend. Okay, Frank, I guess we’re even.

Marshall smiled and said, We had a bunch of these ready to go. Either me or my helper, Alex, or one of the Macks would carve the detailed features. He handed the block head to Joe. In Bergen’s case, seeing as I had done the clay model, I did the facial features, putting my little touches as I went along.

Joe held the head by its pole, moving it up and down and turning it left and right. Did the son, Charles, the tavern owner, ever carve heads?

Not too many. He left it mostly to us. Charles did a lot of the ornamental work when he wasn’t at his tavern, said Marshall and shaking his head he added, I think Charles felt puppets were a lesser art.

I see, said Joe.

"Often times we would have to help Charles on his architectural projects. The puppets could always wait. So, Alex and I would switch off depending on what Charles had in the shop.

But usually I would do the detail carving and Alex would do the sanding and finishing.

Like Michelangelo and his helpers.

Quite so, but in all honesty I can’t claim I carved Charlie McCarthy because I was working for the Macks. It was their shop and their tools and their product. Besides, Alex was part of it too.

Joe said, …but, Frank, I can see here, along these walls, Joe pointed to the hanging figures, "it was you. That is your style."

Frank Marshall didn’t answer, but said, "We didn’t work there too much longer. Theodore died in 1923 and Charles in 1924. Same year Alex and I bought the whole business from Charles’ widow, Martha. We moved the shop to 67 West Ohio Street. Alex did the architectural carving, and I did the puppets. We went our separate ways sometime later, but Alex did carve a few figures.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, we only did the head for Bergen. He couldn’t afford to have Mack construct the body, laughed Marshall, so he made it himself.

Joe said, So, Charlie McCarthy had many fathers.

Yes, like success, he had many fathers. said Marshall. But I became the orphan, once fame arrives.

Joe didn’t say a word.

Marshall shuffled a few tools on his workbench and said, It happens quite often. I create these characters, these beings, whose faces project a unique personality, a life force…. His voice trailed off, then he added, Ventriloquism is an illusion, you know. You can no more throw your voice than you can throw your head.

Joe laughed and said, So the audience only thinks the voice is coming from the puppet.

"The illusion of another voice and another personality comes from the ventriloquist. Ventriloquism is to the ear what magic is to the eye. Magic is possible because the hand is quicker than the eye, as they say. The only real thing is the figure or marionette. It is what the audience sees and believes. They believe in the puppet. That is the magic.

"I contend the puppet affects the audience like no other form of entertainment. Only in the mind of an audience does a puppet exist, an illusion, a work of magic, awakening feelings within us and revealing the truth. You see, the greatest illusion of all is the one we conjure for ourselves.

The spectator plays a more important role than even the puppeteers. But the figure or marionette must not be too real, merely the suggestion of life, not life itself. It presents the truth, the spectator’s imagination does do all the work. Without a figure with the quintessential qualities that conjure life―without that―the illusion is lost.

Marshall’s eyes lowered, The ventriloquists and puppeteers forget. They forget. All of them. They go on to lucrative careers and celebrity, and I’m left behind….

Frank, I’ll tell you what: I’ll do my best to get a hold of The Amazing Zagar. Joe raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, I might even convince him to come over here and settle up.

Marshall’s eyes lit up. If Zagar pays, I’ll have enough to pay you handsomely.

We’ll worry about that when I find him.

I don’t know how to thank you, Joe.

Don’t…I haven’t found him yet.

You will. I know you will.

Chapter 2

Later that day…

SOUTH CHICAGO

Vookie’s Tavern

It was Friday. Joe sat alone. The place was filling up. Eddie, the owner, had a small jazz ensemble scheduled for the whole weekend. The music would start in a few hours, around nine o’clock.

Eddie walked over to Joe’s permanently reserved booth, a payback for helping Eddie finance Vookie’s years before. Eddie never paid all the loan back because Joe let it go, all except the booth. Vookie’s became a regional office for Jos. Ganzer Investigations.

What’ll yuh have, Joe?

What’s the special?

Willy the Whip is cooking, so I’d stick with the steak dinner.

Porterhouse?

Yeah, we got that.

Alright, said Joe, and just a beer.

Okay. Are the guys coming in tonight?

I called ‘em. Reading his watch, They should be here by now.

Ludko Randelli leaned around the adjacent booth and looked into Joe’s. I was here before you. Yuh walked right past me.

Eddie looked surprised. Some detective you are, Joe.

Joe’s eyes widened, You had me, Lud. Is that getup for the tail job I have you on?

Ludko stood and joined Joe in his booth. Yeah, I been on that guy for three days. I can’t let him recognize me. He took his hat off. I must be pretty good to fool you two.

Joe said, That’s why it’s you on surveillance.

Ludko said, Wilma told me it was important to meet you here tonight, so I got Flies fillin’ in for me.

Joe frowned.

Hey, Flies is okay for one night, Joe.

I know. He’s too recognizable with those bubble eyes.

Ludko started singing, Flies…with the bub, bub, bubbly eyes. He laughed and said, Ah, he’ll be fine.

Eddie tapped Ludko on the shoulder, You want some dinner?

Ludko eyed Joe.

Yeah, Lud, I’m buying.

If that’s the case, I’ll have the best in the house.

Eddie sighed, Willy the Whip is cooking.

Gimme what Joe’s havin’.

Eddie walked back to the bar and handed the two orders through the window to Willy.

Willy took them and said, Hey, these are for Joe’s table?

Yeah, said Eddie with some consternation.

I’ll do extra good on these. Promise.

Okay, Willy, don’t burn them.

Ludko spotted Benny the Hat walking down the three steps into Vookie’s. Hey, Benny’s here. This must be something big with both of us here.

Benny sauntered past the guys at the bar on his left, shaking hands and greeting everyone. Today’s hat was the topic of their conversations. Benny had on a custom-made fedora with lush black turkey feathers beneath rust colored pheasant. It took a while before he made it to Joe’s booth.

Ludko said, You givin’ all them guys a course in haberdashery?

Benny responded, Lo, Joe, and greetin’s to you too, Luddie. Almost didn’t recognize ya.

Wish I could say the same.

Benny ignored that and slid in the booth forcing Ludko to move toward the center of the horseshoe. You look good with the handlebar lip toupée. Combed the hair different too, eh?

Ludko pointed a thumb at Benny and said, Joe, you’re makin’ a real detective out of this guy.

Eddie returned with two steak dinners and two beers. Here we are, and he set their plates and drinks down in front of them. Wow, the whole crew is here.

Can I order something, Joe? This is business, right?

Ludko said, Sorry, you’re too late. Besides, from the looks of yuh, you ain’t starvin’.

Joe smiled and said, Whatever you want, Benny.

Benny the Hat looked up at Eddie and said, You got any that beef from the sandwiches?

Yeah, quite a bit.

Could you make it into an open-faced for me, maybe with mashed potatoes smothered in gravy with some green beans?

You’re on a diet again, I see, said Ludko.

Benny said, And gimme a ginger ale.

Sure thing, Benny. I think Willy can handle that without messing it up. Eddie walked back to the bar.

Benny turned back to Joe, So what’s up, Joe?

I need some help on a little case.

"What can