Death Wore Gloves

By Ross H. Spencer

A Chicago PI faces a deadly world of femme fatales and not-so-saintly nuns in this crime novel from a “wild, shrewd, mad, and unexpectedly funny” author (The New York Times).
 
When Sister Rosetta’s niece goes missing, the nun (whose favorite poison is anything bottle-bound and boozy) hires shifty PI Tut Willow to find dear Gladys. But as Tut pulls back the curtain on Gladys’ checkered past—which includes a few racy pictures that’d make a sailor blush—he also discovers that someone doesn’t want her found. And soon bodies start piling up. Is Sister Rosetta behind the deaths of those out to harm her niece . . . or are Tut and Gladys just pawns in a much darker game?
 
Full of laugh-out-loud comedy and the darkest of intrigue, Death Wore Gloves is “a lively story, both in and out of bed” from an author with “a keen sense of humor and a sharp writing style . . . Top of the line, this one is” (The New York Times).
 
“This book could have played well at Minsky’s.” —Publishers Weekly
 
“There is something of Donald E. Westlake in Mr. Spencer’s makeup. Like Mr. Westlake, he revels in absurdities that perhaps turn out to be not so absurd after all.” —The New York Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626816466

Book preview

1

Thursday

He’d been napping on his couch, and he’d been seriously tempted to let the telephone ring. Normally a pushover for temptations, serious or otherwise, he’s managed to resist this one and he’d answered the phone. Later, he’d consoled himself with the certain knowledge that there’d have been no way of avoiding the mess—if she’d missed him on Thursday she’d have called on Friday or Saturday, and he’d have responded exactly as he had on Thursday. His finances were under siege and for four hundred dollars he’d have gone over Niagara Falls in a busted orange crate, waving Old Glory and singing America the Beautiful.

He tooled the rust-splotched, bald-tired, white Buick Regal out of a flaming orange sunset and into the soft gray shrouds of another Chicago twilight, boring east on Gunnison Avenue to where an enormous cerise and blue neon sign said Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House. It was just one helluva sign, clearly readable for two city blocks. It said Italian Cuisine and Steaks & Chops and Parties Welcome and Italian Jukebox, and it had a tilted champagne glass that spewed little white bubbles and below the champagne glass it said Cocktail Lounge and Nick Raponi claimed that it cost two hundred dollars a month to keep it lit up. The last four letters of Cocktail sputtered fitfully, flickering on and off in the rapidly gathering October darkness. Tuthill Willow noticed things like that. He was a detective.

There were two cars in the tidy yellow-striped parking lot—Nick Raponi’s brand new Chrysler New Yorker and Florence Gambrello’s antiquated bronze Mercury with its rear bumper caved in. Willow left his Buick, pausing momentarily to sniff the scent of distant burning leaves, wondering if they burned leaves in Heaven, and deciding that they did and that it was probably legal.

Willow knew that Raponi’s would be virtually deserted because Thursday evenings at Raponi’s had been financial catastrophes for years, anticipated and accepted like April afternoons in Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium. Raponi’s was a decent establishment—dim, clean, orderly, and this may have been why Willow had never felt completely at ease there. He’d won his drinking spurs in places where the lights were bright, the jukeboxes loud, the barstools lopsided, the urinals busted, the toilet paper missing—joints where men cussed and spat on the floor and where the women who came in were lost or looking for a proposition, usually the latter. Raponi’s was genteel—its ceiling heavy beamed, spotless white stucco, its walls paneled, its floors carpeted, and there were potted rubber trees in every last nook and cranny. There was a twenty-five-foot black plastic bar with red leatherette barstools, and a fifty-seat dining area with a glass chandelier the size of a Victorian bathtub, skinny-legged wrought-iron tables with red cloths, candles in little red glass chimneys, and black Naugahyde swivel chairs. And barely within the entrance there was Florence Gambrello, Raponi’s steady waitress and occasional bouncer, slouched at a table, yawning, smoking, scratching a muscular thigh, and staring moodily into a red pond of unoccupied dining room tables. Willow paused, cranked up his best preoccupied facial expression, and attempted to brush by her, but Florence Gambrello had the reflexes of a young mongoose and she seized him by the tails of his sports jacket to haul him unceremoniously back to her table. She said, So where’s the fucking five-alarm fire?

Willow’s smile was of the hand-in-the-cookie-jar variety. He jerked an urgent thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the ailing neon sign. He said, "Uhh-h-h, I was in a hurry to tell Nick that your tail isn’t working just right."

Florence Gambrello nodded, staring at him with sultry Sicilian eyes. She ran the pink tip of her highly educated tongue across her full lower lip. She said, "Well, Tutto, any old time Florence’s tail ain’t working just right, you tell Florence, you don’t take it up with Nick Raponi, you got that?"

The neon sign, Flo—I’m talking about the neon sign out front.

Florence Gambrello reached behind him to squeeze his buttocks, one at a time. She said, May God be with you tomorrow night, lover!

Willow grinned a ghastly grin.

Florence said, See me before you leave. It was more command than request.

Willow nodded and ambled to the west end of the bar where Nick Raponi stood, one foot up on the beer cooler, eyes glued to a television commercial—like he was witnessing the second coming of Marilyn Monroe, Willow thought. Raponi was a self-important, rotund, dapper little man with sleek black hair combed straight back, quick, beady dark eyes, an oversize nose, a Burt Reynolds mustache, a fat two-carat diamond ring, and a whole mess of syndicate connections, or so he’d told Willow more than once. On these occasions Willow had nodded appreciation of Raponi’s underworld affiliations, knowing that most Chicago Italians profess to have close Mafia ties and that very few of them would have recognized a genuine Mafioso if he’d been pissing on their shoes. Willow cleared his throat repeatedly until Raponi glanced in his direction. Raponi grimaced and pointed to the rear of the bar area. Yeah, Tut, she’s back in one of the booths—stumbled in here maybe fifteen minutes ago. Said something about having an appointment with you.

Willow said, She sounded half-paralyzed when she called.

No change—she’s loaded to the gunnels. Took a vodka collins with her—haven’t laid eyes on her since.

Willow bought a bottle of Kennessy’s Light Lager and went back there. She was sitting in the shadows, perched sidesaddle on the edge of a booth bench, crossed legs protruding into the aisle, watching his approach with skeptical murky eyes. She said, Missur Willur?

Willow nodded and sank onto the booth bench across from her. Over the years Willow had encountered his share of oddball clients, but this was his first contact with a drunken nun.

2

Thursday

He mumbled, Yes, you’re Rosetta?

"Thass right—Sissur Rosetta. There was something vaguely familiar about her, even in the gloom of Raponi’s darkest booth, something about her nose and her mouth and the determined set of her jaw, but Willow didn’t pin it down until the following afternoon. She shook off the proffered cigarette. Doan smoke, thanks juss same. Sorry am got ass you come all this way, but this place convenyunn—live juss up on Aussin Bullvarr."

Willow said, No difficulty—I’ve been coming to Raponi’s for years. He looked her over. She was pushing hell out of fifty, a heavy-busted, beetle-browed, coarse woman with crinkles at her eyes, gashlike furrows at the corners of her mouth, and an armor plating of pancake makeup that failed to hide her years. Her nun’s habit was badly rumpled; there was a smear of mustard on her left sleeve and smudges of ketchup on her black gloves. She’d been through the mill, probably several times, an aging nun out on a mild bender, and Willow saw nothing wrong with that—even nuns enjoy a few pops now and then, it was a sign of the times—you’ve come a long way, Sister.

She was peering at him through slightly tinted, heavy-rimmed spectacles, her eyes dull, blinking, bloodshot. She said, "Missur Willur, am afray am got promlum—goddam big promlum."

Willow smiled. Well, Sister, it won’t be with cold weather—finish that one and you’ll be good for sixty below.

Sister Rosetta raised an unsteady warning finger. Now, doan you be no wiseass—one thing am can’t stann is wiseass!

Willow said, Just kidding, Sister.

She leaned forward in the booth. Am think mime niece is in some kine trubbul.

"Then you don’t have the problem—your niece has the problem."

She drew herself up haughtily, like a hen over a clutch of eggs. My niece promlums mime promlums too also. You probly never have no kids, right? When Willow shrugged she said, Not bess you knowledge, anyway. It was an acid tack-on but accurate in essence.

Willow said, Tell me about your niece, Sister Rosetta.

Oh, gorjuss girl, simple gorjuss! A tear wriggled through Sister Rosetta’s mascara like a gray cat squeezing through a black picket fence, etching a trail in her pancake makeup. Mime sissur’s only child—mime sissur widow.

Too bad.

Not at all. Husbunn was bassard—real prick.

For a nun, Sister Rosetta had a way with words. Maybe the older ones got that way. Willow said, About your niece, Sister.

She was studying him. You no doubt male pig shauvnuss, am bet.

Willow shook his head. Male Republican.

Same diffurnce—piss on ole Ronull Raygun.

Willow scowled, wishing to Christ that the churches would stay the hell out of politics and get back to doing whatever they were supposed to be doing. He said, Your niece, if you will, Sister Rosetta.

Whabout mime niece?

Right!

Doan know.

And that’s why you called me?

Hey, you very clever fella, Missur Willur!

"Where is your niece?"

Gone.

Well, that’s a beginning. Gone how—eloped with the mail man, kidnapped by gypsies, ran away with the circus—what?

Beats shit outta me.

She’s just gone?

Gone as hell.

What about her clothing?

Oh, ekspensive—goddam near all Marshull Feels stuff!

Uhh-h-h, what I meant was, did she take her clothing when she left?

Most—leff few things.

Why haven’t you tried Missing Persons?

Whaffor? She not missing.

She’s gone but she isn’t missing—let me consider that for just a moment.

She’s call on phone but woan tell new address.

Then she doesn’t want you to know where she is.

By God, you surtnul excellnut detekuv!

You fear for your niece’s safety?

Ezzackly. She tilted her glass and wiped out her drink. An ice cube tumbled into her lap and she brushed it to the floor. She said, Slippery li’l bassard.

Willow sighed. When did she leave?

Couple month, mamey three—hey, you got ’nother screwdrafter?

I believe that’s a vodka collins, Sister Rosetta.

Thass okay.

Willow grabbed her glass and went to the bar, shaking his head. Raponi put down the telephone to mix the drink. He whispered, Got Dom Palumbo on the horn—hotshot hitman outta Detroit—gonna be in town shortly—real big job.

Friend of yours?

Yeah, me and Dom go way back.

Willow returned to the booth with the vodka collins. Sister Rosetta jerked the straw, pitched it into the ashtray, and raised the glass to drink noisily. Willow said, Did you and your niece have a falling out?

Never harsh word.

That’s nice—you lived with her, I assume.

Juss temperarlily, sort of.

Willow nodded. That explained it. The old dragon was probably drunk around the calendar, and her niece had enjoyed as much of it as she could stand. He said, When will you be returning to your duties at the convent, or the church, or the school, or wherever?

Probly ’bout same time am get there.

Well, that took care of that—mind your own business, Willow. He said, Could your niece have been involved with a man?

Sister Rosetta stifled a yawn with a black-gloved hand. Oh, sure.

Who is he?

"How hell am know whom is he? Hey, am here imform you mime sissur diddun raise no goddam lesbian!"

Your niece like men?

Cows like corn?

Perhaps she found a different type of man.

Perhaps Genghis Khan belong Royal Order Mooses.

Don’t waste the punchline, Sister Rosetta.

Okay, ain’t no diffurn type.

She’s tried them all?

Ever damn one. Gladys doan let no moss grow unner her keester.

‘Gladys,’ did you say?

Yes, on amcounn thass her name—Gladys—Gladys Hornsby.

Willow was silent through a few heartbeats. Has Gladys Hornsby ever been married?

Why buy the bull when shit’s so cheap?

Okay, so you want to know where she’s living. Why?

Case ’mergency—she my niece, ain’t I?

What about her mother?

I give up—whabout her?

Maybe Gladys is with her.

Hope not—she dead.

Gladys has a job?

Model—good model—bess damn model whole city Chicago.

Well, if she’s a model, finding her shouldn’t be difficult. What agency does she work out of?

Doan got no more ajunn.

She had one earlier?

Fired him.

For what reason?

Ten percenn.

Who was he?

Brimstone or something—Ramdolph or could been Momroe.

That’s Randolph Brimstone or Monroe Brimstone?

Thass Ramdolph Street or Momroe Street—hey, how long you live Chicago?

Willow exhaled audibly. What does Gladys model?

Whatcha got? Any damn thing—bras, panties, swimsuits.

Modeling is the extent of her activities?

Sister Rosetta stared at him. Missur Willur, you got disgussingly filthy mine, but very prakkikul, am sure.

I was speaking of acting—sometimes models dabble in acting.

Sister Rosetta shrugged. Look, how much money locate mime niece?

I get two hundred a day, four hundred minimum, and I absorb routine expenses. I’ll want the four in advance, a picture of Gladys Hornsby, and your address and telephone number. Can you handle that? Two more Kennessy’s Light Lagers and there’d be less than thirty dollars standing between Willow and a train robbery—still he was hoping that she’d balk at the price.

She didn’t blink. She fumbled her way into a black plastic purse the size of a basketball and produced a quarter-page tom from a Malibu Fashions catalogue. Willow studied a picture of a slender, smoky blue-eyed creature with short honey-blonde hair, a pensive faraway smile, pert full breasts, and a set of legs that would have kicked off a three-day shootout in a Jesuit monastery. She was almost wearing a two-hundred-dollar purple-on-black swimsuit that could have been stuffed into a thimble. Willow tucked the picture into his wallet along with four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and a typewritten scrap of paper bearing Sister Rosetta’s address. He’d glanced at the paper and said, No phone?

Disconnek. Am be in touch on you, doan worry.

But you’ve said that your niece calls you. How does she accomplish that?

Call Webster’s Whirlwind, call Millie and Jake’s, call Bobo’s Dugout, call Mary’s Piano Bar, call—

Willow broke in on her. No matter, I’ll be on this late tomorrow morning.

Sister Rosetta bristled. "How come late? How come not early? Early bird catch worm!"

Yes, but the big possums walk late. Want another drink?

She mopped her mouth with the back of a gloved hand. Hey, one more drink and am take you home, show you where bear burped in brickyard.

Willow didn’t know exactly what she meant by that, but he’d taken enough chances for one day. He said, I’ll take a raincheck.

She rose unsteadily to teeter above him. She patted him on the head, one of those good-old-Rover pats, and she lurched toward the door, pursuing a perilously circuitous route, her heavy purse banging like a wrecking ball against walls and barstools. Willow watched her go out, an aging, hopeless lush who’d probably gotten hooked on sacramental wine during her novitiate days. She was a pain in the ass, but she came out swinging and Willow liked that.

3

Thursday

He headed for the bar, thinking about a girl he’d known, a blonde crackerjack, out of his life now but rarely out of his thoughts. She’d been a model with an eye toward becoming an actress. He straddled a barstool with an effortless ease born of long practice. The television set was off and the jukebox was purring Uno per Tutte by Robertino. Helluva voice. Willow remembered Robertino from his boy-wonder days. From the corner of his eye he saw Florence Gambrello, her elbows on her table, her chin cupped in the palms of her hands, boredom personified, but watching his every move. Willow grinned at Raponi, rolled his eyes, and said, Whe-e-ew!

Raponi said, Ain’t it the truth?

She isn’t driving, is she?

Don’t be ridiculous! She’s dangerous enough on foot! Real ding-a-ling, old Rosie.

You know her?

"Sure, who doesn’t? Rosie drops in now and then—never saw her sober, probably never will. Lives up on Austin someplace—always got money—bought for the house a couple times."

Is she really a nun?

Probably not. She won’t talk about it. If she’s a nun, she’s AWOL—she’s been coming in since spring.

Ever meet her niece?

Yeah, once. She came around looking for Rosie one night, back in June or July. Blonde chickie. Raponi whistled, long, low, and bluesy. "Jesus Christ, I’d sure like to ball that one!"

Nice?

Raponi made several remarks in Italian. Willow didn’t understand remarks made in Italian, but he took these as being affirmative because Raponi had grabbed himself by the testicles and he was jiggling them.

Willow said, Sister Rosetta wasn’t in here that evening?

She came in a couple hours later, bombed—I think she’d got hung up at that Dixieland joint south of here—Webster’s Whirlwind. Rosie makes every firetrap on Austin Boulevard and I guess the kid tries to look out for her.

That’s a thing of the past—she told me that her niece has lammed.

Can’t blame her. Say, that niece just got to be some kind of swinging dish!

How’s that?

Well, she got a little rose tattoo on the back of her hand. Raponi lowered his voice to a confidential level. He said, "You show me a tattooed woman what don’t swing and I’ll show you the seven-legged dinosaur I