Stories from The Lion's Claw Lounge

By Thomas Kaye

In the first story, The Golden Sax, on the opening night of his new jazz club, The Lion’s Claw Lounge, Mike Battan finds himself involved with Michele Diamond the lead singer of his opening night band Jilted Lover. Michele is strapped with a problem. Knowing Battan was previously an investigative reporter with The Daily Metropolitan, she seeks his help in recovering a saxophone which had been stolen from her. Mike’s gut tells him that with the burden of running a saloon, he can’t get involved. But standing in the path to reason is the gnawing challenge to oil his investigative skills -- and a sincere lust for the sultry Michele.

The Lion’s Claw Lounge is a neighborhood bar located in Greenwich Village, New York City. We have live music on weekends entertaining a crowd that have a somewhat sarcastic tone, biting wit and perverted sense of humor. Be yourself, enjoy the jabbing and you’ll be respected. The Lion’s Claw Lounge with cool jazz, pool table and downtown atmosphere, is a giant easy chair for tired souls attempting to bury the problems of the past workweek - and to tell their stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Kaye
• Release date: Feb 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463080931

Thomas Kaye

Graphics and video can stimulate but content is the magnet; words drive the message. I’m a fiction/non-fiction writer from New York with published Ebooks and corporate sales and business articles. I write in a wide variety of styles; everything from casual humor to business professional. I cover all areas including sports, outdoor, current events and humor for all industries; sports clubs, trade associations and start- ups. I’m an active outdoorsman interested in hiking, biking, and golf.

Book preview

Deadline to Destiny

The doors of the number six slashed open and I hustled across the main concourse of Grand Central Station. Winding around a group of guys playing violins, my mind replayed the frantic phone call from my Managing Editor yelling, ‘Get down here tonight, I have the holy shit story. Not what I wanted to hear. Two nights ago, I’d decided to quit the business. Now, Hammer’s alluring pledge changed that. He lit the flame under a cold burner and ignited the investigative juices. Writing the holy shit story is like flirting heavy and getting drunk with a Victoria’s Secret model over dirty martinis at a downtown Manhattan jazz lounge. Retirement had just gone on hold.

My eyes shot up at the giant zodiac mural ceiling that showed my sign, Aquarius and the constellation Orion - The Hunter. I’d been tagged with the nickname by a CFO after I ripped him apart in an investigative piece two years ago. The brass clock above the info booth showed nine thirty.

My name is Mike Battan, as in ‘battan down the hatches.’

I yanked my collar up against the cold October wind and pushed through the late-night sidewalk traffic on Vanderbilt, heading southeast on Forty-Second Street toward The Daily Metropolitan building located between Second and Third. Five minutes later, I entered the lobby and cruised by the world’s largest indoor globe on my way to the bank of elevators for the slow ride up.

Reaching the fourth floor, I hurried down the hallway, checking out the framed awards that hung on the walls reflecting back to when a young newspaper sat as number one in New York City. Glancing into a near empty newsroom, I looked at an editorial and reporting staff trimmed like a crew cut - the Internet being the main villain. Three doors down brought me to the spacious office of Jim Hammer Clancy. I knocked on the open door. Hammer sat behind an old oak desk, cigar hanging out of his mouth, and a face twisted with an expression of exhaustion and excitement. The mat of bushy white hair looked as if some secretary tussled through it. He grabbed hold of the New York Rangers coffee cup.

Hey, come in, this is important.

They cancelled the dog show at The Garden?

Hammer grunted, as I sank down into one of the giant red leather chairs that faced his desk.

Your first impression of Hammer would be that the nickname didn’t fit the man. But he’d gained the reputation pounding out story after story as a tough street reporter ten years back. When Hammer worked the streets, he sought out anyone that could get him information. Not always well advised as he discovered the night his shoulder found a knife down in Hell’s kitchen. Jim said the drugged- up informant that jumped him didn’t miss the throat by more than three inches.

Hammer put down the mug and asked, Do you know Walter Weiss?

Isn’t he the guy who installed the alarm system for the building?

"Knock it off, alright? Weiss is the head of The New York Gaming Commission."

Yeah, his name came up when I researched that piece on the mutual department at Belmont and Aqueduct. What about him?

Mike, you’re the lead investigative reporter and the only guy I trust around here.

People ask me what I investigate. The text book answer is to discover and then uncover information that is important and hidden. And that’s what my specialty was: uncovering everything from prostitution rings run out of law firms to illegal lemonade stands.

Hammer said, An hour ago I received a tip from a very reliable source. The FBI is building a case of embezzling charges against Weiss. Apparently, the man has had his hand in the cookie jar for years.

Yeah, well, the casino’s union pension fund is a big jar.

He’s a slippery guy with good lawyers and got cleared by the courts on that one. Now, listen. Hammer leaned forward, his hands clasped on top of an old, stained desk blotter. Weiss attended a fundraiser tonight around five-thirty. He’d been scheduled to receive some kind of award. When they called him up to the podium, he didn’t show. An hour later my source spoke to him on the phone. During the dinner, Weiss had somehow got wind of the pending indictment. He refused to tell my source his location but insisted he’s innocent and needs time to prove the allegations are false. That tells me he wants to talk. You need to find him and get me an interview.

I’d love to. Do we have any idea where he’s hiding?

My source said Weiss knows people from Harlem to Chinatown so he’s more likely to stay in the city.

Hammer, I’m a reporter not a bloodhound. And last I checked, Manhattan Island had twenty-six miles of real estate and over a million doors.

I didn’t say it’d be easy.

When’s the FBI supposed to indict?

I don’t know.

Great, you want me to call you tomorrow?

Once again ignoring my sharp wit, Hammer slid a manila envelope across the desk. Grabbing the envelope, I noticed Weiss written across the front.

I threw together some photos and a bio for you to look at. Mike, the paper needs this story bad. I need it more. Circulation has dropped. Ad space is down. The size of the paper has been reduced - you can barely read the print. The online edition does well, and that’s where the advertising bucks go. Look at the newsroom, half the people are gone. I’m next in line.

Hammer, all the newspapers in the major cities are hurting and going through the same shit. Your job is safe.

He gave me a surprised look. Get a reality check. Our new young gun management team wants to either see me retire or give me the boot. Listen, Mike, we’re both forty-five. We don’t need the hassle of searching for another job.

Hey, I don’t appreciate being included in your doomsday scene.

He grabbed the coffee cup and took a slug. For now, I have Conrad on my side but he’ll eventually listen to his new management team.

Conrad Starr had been the publisher of The Daily Metropolitan for over twenty years.

Hammer continued, "Listen, you know about the new Crime Scene section of the Sunday edition?"

Yeah, looks real good. I helped work on a few of the smaller pieces.

"The first issue is scheduled for next Sunday’s edition. I want the Weiss story on the Crime Scene front page. And you can’t discuss the piece with anyone until we have the interview locked up..."

You got to be kidding. No office staff? Where do I get resources, off a cloud?

Mike, by next Friday, we need to have copy in the hands of the editors. So, including tomorrow, we have seven days to find Weiss and get the interview.

"You mean I have seven days. And if this is kept quiet, how you do expect to get the space allocated?"

We’ll deal with that later. Once the piece is edited, and we have the Weiss interview it’ll be too hot not to go to print.

I didn’t reply.

Listen, this exclusive would keep my ass out of the fire for at least a year.

He rose from his desk and limped to the window, the result of a bullet to the thigh back in the good old days. The man was as tough an editor as he was street reporter. I watched him stare out onto the New York skyline. But the job had whittled my strong friend down to a man clinging to a career. Then again, it’s the roll of the dice moving from scuffing the streets to a political position like editor with your ass nailed behind a desk. His moment of contemplation ended, and he turned around to face me.

"The assignment is hush-hush, my friend. And please stay away from the newsroom staff. Start where Weiss was last seen and work it from there. Use our street sources and the shady characters you know. Not only can we nail the front page, but it can jumpstart the new Crime Beat section."

I looked closely at the face of a guy who had lowered a seven-hundred-pound weight onto his shoulders. But something else wasn’t right in the Hammer Clancy world, besides paranoia about standing on the unemployment line.

I said, Let’s back up. Attempt to find the trail of a man on the run and don’t use the tools and contacts of our news staff? C’mon Hammer, I don’t operate this way and you know it. What’s going on?

Just being overly cautious with a very hot tip. Hey, I’ve seen you track down a story using only one inside source. C’mon, this is not one of your tougher challenges.

Maybe, but it’s the first assignment I’ve had to start with no ammunition. I need to speak to your source.

No.

Then you better lift this secret veil and explain what the hell is going on.

He paused and then flashed the famous Hammer grin.

And now, for my usual Battan speech; try to stay out of trouble...

I cut him off. And brush after meals and use protection. Yeah, good advice but I’m not leaving this office until you give me some details.

We sat silent as he pushed around papers on his desk as if looking for a lost winning lottery ticket.

All right, sorry about the bullshitting. Bottom line is, I’m not supposed to know any of this and was told to keep it quiet.

Who told you to keep it quiet?

I got to keep that under wraps.

So, what am I getting into here?

A story that will save my ass, boost your career and help sell newspapers. He paused and said, Stay in touch with me daily – day or night.

That ended our discussion. I rose from the comfort of the ripped chair, and headed out of the office into the hall. Nothing felt right about this assignment. Hammer never spoke in circles about any story, or went around management. I decided to pass on the elevator and use the opposite staircase near Hammer’s office, which would let me out on the north side of 42nd Street. Then the elevator opened and a man rushed out toward the newsroom. Heading toward the staircase I felt anger toward this guy who I assumed was just another freelancer trying to make his bones after replacing one of our staff people. I entered the stairwell, made it down to the second floor when I heard the shot. A second later, another.

Taking two steps at a time, I opened the door to the fourth floor and watched the door to the opposite stairwell close. Running toward the stairwell I could hear footsteps banging down the steps. Instead of tailing the shooter, or who I assumed to be the shooter, I headed back into the office and saw Hammer in the corner by his desk laid out like an ironing board. I ran over, knelt by his side and felt a pulse in his wrist. Blood poured out of two nice sized bullet holes in his chest. Spotting a pile of NY Mets beach towels, I grabbed two, ripped open his shirt, skirted the towels around the wounds and closed the shirt tight.

Take it easy, my friend. I’ll get an ambulance over here. Did you know the guy?

No, didn’t even see a face. Just call the ambulance and get the hell out of here... He hacked a few times and reminded me, Mike, nobody can know about the assignment.

My heart raced as I hurried over to his desk and dialed 911, keeping an eye on the door. Obviously, nobody from the newsroom had heard the shots. Or maybe the piece had a silencer; I don’t know. The operator came on the line.

Nine-One-One emergency.

"Yeah, there’s been a shooting at 220 East 42nd Street, The Daily Metropolitan building, fourth floor. The victim is in the office of the Managing Editor. Use the entrance to the newsroom when you come off the fourth floor elevator."

Sir, what is your name?

Call this number if you need more info. I gave the operator the phone number for the newsroom. Even though they seemed to brain dead tonight, they could give out directions to police.

I said to the operator, Did you get that?

"Yes, the Daily Met building fourth floor editor’s office. Sir, will you be there when the paramedics--"

I had no choice but to slam down the phone and race back to the victim.

Jim, I hate to leave you lying here...

He struggled to open his mouth.

If you stay here, cops will ask you questions - just go... His eyes shut.

Alright, take it easy someone will be here in a few minutes, and I took off out the door and into the hallway. I flew down the same stairs the shooter had taken. Reaching the bottom, I flung open the gray metal exit door and stepped out onto 43rd Street. My head panned the area like a periscope searching the ocean. It proved useless. Whoever fired the shot had disappeared. Sweating and with my heart about to bust out of my chest, I headed up the block when something slammed down on my head.

Sprawled out on the sidewalk, I looked up and saw the sky spinning and a few people lingering on the perimeter of my vision.

Hey, are you all right? Let me call someone.

Through a haze, I saw a man pull out his cell phone.

Forcing myself up with one hand I staggered over to a taxi stand pole and leaned up against it. I didn’t see stars, so I held up a hand and looked over at the man.

Listen, I’m fine. No problem, thanks.

Okay. He shoved the phone into his pocket and continued down the street. I touched my head lightly and felt a nice-sized egg, but no blood. Five minutes later, an ambulance appeared. The EMTs headed toward the freight elevator with a gurney followed by four cops. I began to hoof it down 43nd Street toward the East River, a man on the run from a crime he didn’t commit. My head buzzed as I weaved in and out of people like I was in the roller derby, rushing past the landscape of Irish bars, Italian restaurants, office buildings and bodegas. But the guilt of leaving the scene of the shooting stopped me cold.

Reversing direction, I stopped again. Hammer had asked me to keep quiet, and there was nothing to gain by going back to the office. The only details I could offer would be the man I saw coming out of the elevator and then hearing footsteps going down steps. Yeah, probably the same guy, but I didn’t get a good look at him the first time. But I knew that any details given to the cops about a shooting could help in identification. After a minute of back and forth with myself, I decided to continue my pace. A half hour I arrived at my loft on West 18th Street.

Stars in a clear sky and a mild pleasant air temp did nothing to clear my dark mood as I climbed the stairs to the third floor. I entered the apartment, headed to the living room, filled a glass with scotch and belted down half. Of all the shit I’d gone through investigating stories, I’d never had to watch a man suffer from a gunshot wound. Throwing down the rest of the drink, I sat back and closed my eyes. My mind continued to race. What the hell just happened? And what should I do at this point? Coincidences, I don’t like. And the fact Hammer had been warned not to talk about the Weiss indictment and then not five minutes later receive two bullets to the chest was world class coincidence. Was it possible his reliable source was the same guy who fired the shots?

I went back to the bottle, poured round two and returned to the couch. The assignment was dicey enough when presented by Hammer, but now it took a one-eighty into the danger zone. This was a police matter, and I knew it. With a tight grip on the glass of scotch, I rocked imaginary cubes and thought about the situation. The story line existed. The head of the Gaming Commission had gone into hiding after finding out about a possible indictment by the FBI on embezzlement charges. According to Hammer’s reliable source, Weiss ran to give himself time to prove any allegations were false. Hammer had smelled a story, with the cornerstone being an interview with Weiss. Very big task, which grew bigger with Hammer’s deadline of seven days – next Sunday’s edition. Maybe I could stay out of the line of fire long enough to track down Weiss. The clock hanging over the beat-up book case showed ten-thirty. Early enough to get started.

Since Hammer didn’t spill the name of his source, I needed someone who witnessed Weiss leaving the fundraiser. Better yet, a friend, colleague, or someone who could point me in the direction of a safe house where Weiss might hide. Or I could hire the Indian who tracked down Butch Cassidy and Sundance.

My tired gaze shot over to the manila envelope Hammer had given me in his office. I opened the flap and dumped the contents on the dining room table. I stared at a pile of press club photos and fanned them across the table like a poker hand. The photos showed Walter Weiss at various functions. There had to be something in one of these pictures that Hammer thought was important, or maybe not. Sticking out from under the pile was a sheet of Hammer’s personal stationery with the name of the restaurant Chez Laguna. I knew the place. Chez Laguna gained fame as the typical overpriced New York restaurant with the distinction of serving mediocre food. High end clientele got the chance to throw away their money in order to be seen sitting in the lavish digs. Not my style. And I had no idea what significance that restaurant had.

Sliding the envelope to the side, I fired up the computer and typed in Chez Laguna. The first item showed a schedule of events which included the fundraiser for The Children’s Hospital that had taken place earlier in the evening. And where Walter Weiss was the honored guest. Weiss had taken off from the fundraiser at Chez Laguna and gone where? The start of the Weiss trail had to be investigated with no help from my fellow employees, thanks to the secrecy pledge I gave Hammer. The whole assignment twisted around the concepts I usually worked with. The process of investigative reporting started with a hunch, or a tip, as in the case of Hammer Clancy. But there are steps an editor and reporter grind out, in an effort to figure out if the piece has legs. It’s called a feasibility study, which is used to determine the news value of the story. Once that’s established, you move to the logistics of page space needed and the appropriate section of the paper. In this case, I wanted the Crime Scene section. Finally, the reporter dives into planning, records and research. He then begins to secure key interviews leading to the final edit and publication. In the case of the Weiss interview, this process was shot to hell.

I turned off the computer, swiveled around and asked myself the million-dollar question. Why throw it all away? Walter Weiss, a high-profile, successful executive treated like a king at restaurants and benefiting from big amenities not available to working class stiffs. Maybe a lady on the side who demanded she be kept buried in diamonds? Did Weiss get involved with drugs? Or did the head of the Gaming Commission simply fall into the ugly addictive gutters