Didja' Hear? Danny Devlin's Dead: A Tommy Palmer Story

By William P. Singley

Its Ash Wednesday, and all Tommy Palmer wants to do is enjoy his drink at Billy Friscos jazz club and listen to some great American tunes. Carla is on stage, Billys girl, and man, can she sing. The pouring rain outside only makes Tommy, her biggest fan more inclined to stay, until a soaking wet getaway driver tumbles in the front door.

Turns out, Danny Devlin is deadshot at a botched post office robbery. Billy hired an amateur driver who abandoned the crew. Now, Billys in hot water, and Tommy is a witness to his guilt. Due to Billys bad hire, hes ordered to kill the driver plus a prostitute who wont keep her mouth shut about her johns. But Billys no killer. Hes just a dim bulb among the casino glitz.

However, it looks like Billy will do anything to keep his club and his reputation, even resort to murder. He and Tommy werent meant to be enemies; it just sort of happened, all because of a stormy night and some jazz. All bets are off in Atlantic City as a club owner turns butcher and Tommy decides there are some things a guy just doesnt do.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475974096

William P. Singley

The author grew up on the Jersey Shore near Atlantic City. He attended LaSalle College and UCLA where he won the prestigious Samuel Goldwyn Literary Award. During the Vietnam War he served with the 101st Airborne as a combat photographer and earned a Bronze Star. Two of his stories supported Medals of Honor for fellow soldiers. He holds a Masters Degree in Southeast Asian Studies and has traveled extensively in the area in addition to Europe and Africa. Currently, he resides in Southern California, and daily says hello to the beach and ocean.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A squad car prowled the wet streets of the uptown business area of Atlantic City. Inside, two older cops were killing time until their shift ended at midnight. As they sat at a light on New York Avenue a van passed in front of them on Pacific Avenue. The driver looked, turned away, slowed, and then picked up speed.

Did that guy act weird to you? asked the driver Marty, the more senior of the two.

I didn’t see nobody, Leo replied. Leo wasn’t interested in anything, but a cigarette and smooth skating for the last sixty minutes of their shift.

Whadda you think? Wanna take a look?

Hell no, Leo said, It’s raining.

Marty turned onto Pacific Avenue anyway. Maybe it’s a serial killer with a body in the back. You’ll be a hero.

Two blocks ahead the van made a right turn without signaling.

Gotcha, said Marty.

What a sin, no blinker, Leo commented then said, You know, I’ll be a hero to my old lady if I can get home before one. She still waits up.

Marty ignored his partner’s reluctance and picked up speed to the corner.

They turned and half way down the block the dark van was pulled against the curb on the ‘no parking’ side.

I think we bumped into something.

Yeah, said Leo. A headache.

They pulled behind the old van. Their headlights revealed a faded blue paint job with a Chevy logo. Leo said, All right, I’ll call it in. While they waited for a reply on the license plate, neither man wanted to get wet so they stayed in the car discussing their upcoming days off.

Marty had a list of ‘honey-dos’ a mile long. Leo had cracked the window and was ready to light up when the dispatcher’s static voice advised them that the tag had been stolen in Brigantine a week ago. It should be on a Chevy Malibu registered to a Mr. James Shellum.

I told you something wasn’t right.

So, go find out, Leo said. I’ll cover you from here.

No way, partner. You just want a dry smoke. We look together.

What if it’s a bomb? We both get blown up?

Then I won’t have my ‘honey-dos’.

It took more than a few minutes to struggle into their raincoats since they were both in the front seat. Leo took the shotgun. Both unsnapped their holsters. Leo cancelled his cigarette and opened his door. He said, I get wet I’m using the shotgun on you, partner.

They stepped out into the heavy rain.

Marty carried a flashlight and walked slowly along the driver’s side while Leo stayed by the back covering him. When Marty shined the light inside, Leo could see through the rear window. The van looked empty. He went along the passenger side and tried the sliding door—locked. Then he tried the passenger cab door—unlocked.

He called across the windshield. Marty, its open. I’m popping it.

Slowly, he opened the door and took a good look inside, then he hit the unlock button for all the doors.

Marty opened the driver’s door. Any bad guy with half a brain knows you should always lock your vehicle. No telling who might try and get in.

They confirmed the van was empty. The ignition hot wired.

A squawk of static sounded from between the seats.

What the hell! Leo jumped back, the barrel of the shotgun hitting the door frame.

Marty carefully leaned over and picked up a radio with two fingers. Whadda you think? He placed it on the driver’s seat.

I don’t know. I need a light here. Leo had the glove compartment open and Marty put the beam on the stale DMV papers Leo pulled out.

Looks like it belongs to a guy in P’Ville.

Ten to one he ain’t the driver.

You think?

The squawking radio went silent. A voice asked, Pete?

The cops looked at one another.

Pete?

Marty shrugged at Leo, picked up the radio, and pressed the talk button. What’s up?

Pete? asked the voice again.

Leo suggested to his partner, Ask where he is. And he did.

The radio went dead.

Let’s call this in, said the two cops simultaneously.

Leo added, I’ll get backup.

The van was illegally parked alongside the city’s main post office, and Pete’s employers were inside stealing stacks of money orders from the security cage. Last December, one of their acquaintances, a retired employee who liked to travel to warm climates, had sold them a duplicate key to the backdoor on the loading dock for an upfront cost of one thousand dollars and, depending on their take, another one to two thousand once the enterprise was over.

The retiree had also confirmed there was no night watchman on week nights then had added, I mean who’s gonna bust into a post office on a week night? It’s a federal crime for Christ’s sake.

Danny Devlin was their leader, a well-liked, smart young man who looked like an ambitious stock broker trainee. But Danny was a thief—a good one who was well known in crime and law and order circles. Many of the cops had grown up with him and his family. His older brother was a priest. Everyone liked Danny, who readily admitted stealing was just business and no one should ever be hurt. Freddie Knight worked in the cage with Danny. He was non-descript, chubby, and someone who goes along and doesn’t put too much thought into what he’s doing as long as there’s a payday. Danny’s favorite partner was Snow Craven—black, tough, who delighted to rob the man. His real first name was Adam, which he believed his religious parents gave him so he’d follow the straight and narrow. His nickname came from his obvious love of buying and selling a certain substance.

Danny looked up from the radio, his Ash Wednesday smudge from morning mass still on his forehead, Someone else answered.

Snow wanted to know what he meant.

He’s not answering. That was someone else. They asked where we were.

Freddie immediately asked what were they going to do. I mean, where’s that guy Pete?

Danny worried. Last thing he said he was just outside on Illinois Avenue. We best get going.

Each of them had a trash bag containing blank money orders and cash that they had found in drawers. Their original plan was to walk right out the front doors as if they were a maintenance crew, but from the lobby they saw the two police cars’ flashing lights reflected in the rain, numerous puddles, and store windows along the street.

We’re fucked, said Freddie.

I’ll kill that fucker he rats us out, declared Snow.

Danny knew the cops would pick up the stolen plate and truck as soon as they ran it. He looked at his pals and said, We go out the way we came in—back door.

Following Danny, they moved quickly and quietly through the post office hallway maze to the loading dock door.

Gino Lombardi, chief of detectives, pulled up in his unmarked car behind Marty and Leo’s car and the backup team’s. A big man, big like an old tight end gone soft, he hefted himself out of the car, and keeping his raincoat over his head, joined Leo and Marty.

Whadda you got?

Hot plate and stolen van. Two-way radio in the van. Driver was talking to someone.

Leo said, I sniffed it out when the guy drove by.

You sniffed it out! You wanted to go in early ’cause of the rain, you deadbeat.

Gino leaned forward from the backseat and reminded them they were partners. So you both sniffed it out. So what?

They really didn’t know anything more than someone on the radio asked for Pete.

Get forensics on the van for prints, said Gino.

Leo already called it in, Marty replied.

Lombardi sat back, shifted his bulk, and waited, enjoying the flashing lights and watching his officers in their cars doing nothing. They should have been on the street ten minutes ago. He shook his head but didn’t curse at them. He still carried an altar boy mentality ingrained in his youth and disliked profanity. Among men who kept things simple, the detective was well-read and often too literate.

And he loved being a cop. He said, A night for fish, gentlemen. Let’s throw out a line.

No one responded to his hint.

Why is this van sitting here? Why am I waiting for four of our finest to take a stab at why a stolen van without keys and with a two-way radio is sitting on Illinois Avenue on a rainy Wednesday night?

Marty and Leo looked at one another.

How long since you pulled up here?

Fifteen. Twenty minutes tops, offered Marty, glad to contribute.

That’s twenty-plus minutes you gave the driver and whoever’s on the radio to disappear.

Gino knew and they knew they were avoiding the rain and planning to just go off shift as if the van was only a simple abandoned vehicle.

You’re grown ups. Experienced. Why do I have to draw you a picture? You and the unambitious duo behind you.

Marty reluctantly said, We’ll canvass the stores and see if any are broken into.

Leo didn’t think there was much to see in the rain.

Gino directed them to wake up their backup and go through the neighborhood, walk the alleys, check front and back doors while he sat there, nice and dry, and contemplated suspending all of them for failure to get wet.

Both officers buttoned up their raincoats.

Ready, Leo? asked Marty as he cracked the door.

They took their flashlights, climbed out, and went to their counterparts.

Danny, Craven, and Freddie crouched behind the solid heavy door to the loading dock. Danny’s idea was to exit one at a time. We can’t take the bags. Just stuff your pockets and walk away. We’ll meet at The Lighthouse around two. Think about making up an alibi between now and then.

Freddie believed they’d never make it.

Snow suggested hiding inside until tomorrow morning and just walk out.

Wait, said Danny, I’m not thinking right. We can’t take anything, but cash. One money order sends us to Atlanta’s federal slam.

All of it? Freddie wasn’t happy.

He’s right. Craven knew with no evidence they’d just be guys walking in the rain. They don’t even know we’re in here, or they’d be busting down the doors.

They dumped the garbage bags on the floor, rapidly sorted out the bills. The count added up to about seven hundred dollars a man. Chump change, said Craven.

Freddie wanted to know who would go first.

Danny, noticing Freddie’s worried look, went face to face with him and said, You do. Out of the alley, you walk slowly. Collar up. Window shop. You see a cop, slow down even more and stop. The last thing you do is run. Craven follows you but goes in another direction, and then I’ll come along like a wet homeless dude.

Quietly, they went out and lined the wall of the dark loading dock. The overhead door light had been put out when they entered. At the left far end of the through alley, police car lights flashed.

Danny thought the rain was good. Kept noises down. Get going, Freddie, and don’t run.

I’ll be cool. See you at The Lighthouse.

Freddie dropped off the dock and walked to the street.

Craven watched him turn left. Bad vibes, Danny. We’ll make up for this.

They bumped fists.

You can come with me, you know.

Danny shook his head. If they were together the cops would know they were guilty of something, even if they were coming from church. Snow and Danny were known crime partners with time served.

Craven slipped off the dock, walked down the alley, and turned right. A young officer came around the corner and started checking doors and Snow actually crossed the street and walked toward the officer. Just before he reached him, he stopped and shaded his eyes to look into a vacuum-cleaner shop window. The cop came toward him, and they passed each another. The cop stepped into another entrance and rattled the doors.

Craven walked away. Smiling. Danny was right.

Counting down, aloud, . . . nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one-go. Danny jumped off the dock.

When he came out of the alley the young cop who had passed Snow saw him and crossed the street toward him. Hey, buddy! Whadda you doing in the alley?

Fuck, thought Devlin. Bad luck. The cop might know him.

He casually turned back into the alley to go out the other end where the police cars were—collar up, watch cap down.

After he turned, he heard the cop shout, Hey! Hold on there!

He looked back. The cop wasn’t in the alley yet.

Danny broke his own rule. He ran. If he could reach the other end of the alley where the lights were flashing, the cops might be too busy to notice him. With one quick cut into a familiar alley he could disappear.

Danny saw the cop’s flashlight beams reflected in the heavy rain, searching for him.

Halt or I’ll shoot! The anxious young officer yelled, adding a weak, I mean it!

He was too young to shoot. Danny heard it in his voice. Kid had never dreamed he’d be in the position to shoot a real person.

Behind him, Danny couldn’t see the pistol come out, the flashlight drop. The cop aimed over Danny’s head, but his shaking hands dropped the muzzle. When he fired, he hit Danny directly in the back of the head.

Danny dropped like wet mud, face down, still thinking the young cop would never shoot.

The policeman didn’t realize he had hit him and ran deeper into the alley, forgetting his flashlight, still carrying his weapon.

From the other end of the alley, Marty, pistol drawn because he’d heard a shot, ran into the darkness.

Both arrived at the body at the same time.

The young cop, a rookie, stopped and looked at Marty and said. Jesus, he wouldn’t stop. I warned him, but he kept running. I tried to shoot over his head. I swear I did.

Marty, put away his weapon and knelt over the body. It’s okay, kid. You did the right thing.

The veteran cop went through Danny’s pockets as Leo, Gino, and the other cop came up. Marty found a lot of cash and a narrow wallet. As he flipped through the plastic inserts, the rain splattered on them, so he leaned over the wallet to protect it and dug out a Jersey driver’s license. Give me a light, kid.

I left it back there. Embarrassed, the rookie turned and trotted back while Leo shined his light over Marty’s shoulder.

Daniel P. Devlin, read Marty. He then added, looking up into the rain and the wet faces of the others, Jesus. He shot Danny Devlin.

They turned him face up.

The rain quickly washed the Ash Wednesday smudge into his blank eyes.

. . . . . .

CHAPTER TWO

Tommy Palmer would’ve left Billy Frisco’s just after Carla finished her set if it hadn’t been raining so hard. His beer was warm and the shot glass barely had a drop left. He couldn’t decide whether or not to call his detective pal, Gino. Sometimes, if he was free, Gino would give him a lift to his small apartment on St. James Place just off the boardwalk after they had stopped for a nosh at the Baltimore Grill. So he just sat listening to the jazz CDs that played during the trio’s break. Frisco’s was the best spot in Atlantic City to catch traditional jazz and cabaret music. Its dark, old-school interior appealed to the casual, late night population of dealers, pit bosses, change and cocktail ladies, and others stopping for one on the way to crank up or end their evenings.

The only thing of interest was the two troublemakers at the near empty bar. Their arrogance showed in their tailored suits and attitudes of tossing money around. Maybe young business types in for a convention? Their entertainment seemed to be making rude comments to anyone passing by and annoying Monk, the bartender, by asking for fancy drinks and then, halfway through the creation, changing their minds. Monk, a veteran mixologist, ignored them as best he could and stayed stoic as he produced their concoctions.

At the far end of the bar, Tommy remained on his stool, hoping nothing happened to force him to get his ass kicked by trying to help. Days of ‘stepping in’ were long gone for Tommy Palmer.

Billy Frisco came out of his office to patrol the bar, as was his custom. The owner was well dressed and acted like an owner, a player in the casino world of AC. He called Monk to the end of the bar near Tommy and asked him about the drunks. They both looked across the bar.

The wise guys looked back. You got a problem? asked the bigger of the two.

Billy walked away from the bar, and Monk came over to Tommy.

Another?

I’m trying to get out of here, said Tommy. The rain is keeping me back.

Monk pulled a fresh draught and put it in front of Tommy. In case you get bored waiting.

Those guys making your night tough?

Me? Watch. Monk, who sported an effective comb-over on the top of his head, laughed. Billy just went for Bluey.

Palmer joined him with a smile. Maybe I’ll stay for the show.

Tommy didn’t care much for Billy, a stocky Jewish guy avoiding fifty who curled his hair, and wanted to be a made man. His real name was Aaron Beckoff, and he was from Olney, a neighborhood of Philadelphia. He imagined himself a part of the AC underworld because he hung around guys who walked on the other side of the street and sometimes used his bar as a meeting place. Billy was known to buy and sell things he didn’t own and loan shark here and there, but he never dealt drugs; he could lose his place doing that. However, he wasn’t opposed to off premise cocaine.

Tommy liked to say Billy wanted to be Italian.

And he didn’t like the way Billy treated Carla. Tommy considered her his personal songstress, his own Chris Connor or Sarah Vaughan. She was good looking in a stylish manner, thirtyish, and always tastefully dressed for the spotlight on the small stage. When she sang and played I’ll Remember You, Skylark, or any number of jazz classics he imagined she was looking right at him. If he was a younger man he’d take her away from all that—especially Billy.

Monk circled the bar and served a couple a long way down.

Nights