A Hard-Boiled Half Dozen: The Red Daley Stories

By Daniel Rowe

Meet Red Daley. He's a two-fisted ex-cop who traded his badge for a reporter's notebook but never lost his sense of justice. These are some of his stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257409921

Book preview

978-0-557-09774-6

The Sound of Death

The Irish say that death is foretold by the wailing of the Banshee. They may be right. In the city, the harbinger of death is often the shrill wail that comes from a siren.

There was a mist over the streets--the kind that can’t quite decide if it’s rain or heavy dew. The streetlights wore their halos like sentinel angels watching over throngs of sinners. There were plenty of those to be watched.

I stood at the corner of an alley, looking for a story in the mist. I heard a siren from a prowl car in the next block followed by the slap of shoe leather against concrete coming down the alley. Something didn’t look right about the punk in hip-hop style carrying a large straw purse as he ran toward me. I pressed against the wall to get out of his way. It was a shame he tripped over my foot.

He sprawled on the pavement and should have been grateful that the dampness of the mist lubricated the slide of his nose. He rolled over and looked at me. He must not have liked what he saw since he pulled out a long blade. I pulled out my big gun and he liked that even less.

You going to do something? Like drop the knife? Or are you just going to lay there and bleed? I said. He dropped the knife but the look could have killed me. The uniforms showed at that point so the issue was never clarified.

They were both young. One had sense but the other was suffering from a bad case of the heavy badge. While his partner secured the punk on the ground, he yelled at me to drop my gun. He’d watched too many cop shows.

I don’t think I want to drop it. It might get bent or scratched, I said as I laid the gun on the pavement. I’m Red Daley and I have a license for this weapon which I’ll be happy to show you. First, you should help your partner with that suspect.

I don’t need advice from citizens. Turn around and put your hands on top of your head.

Okay. Don’t get nervous, I said. That’s when the punk kicked the other cop and started running. He ran the wrong way. He wanted to keep me between him and Super Cop. As he tried to pass me, I checked him into the wall and took him down. Super Cop stood there with his mouth open as I asked for a set of cuffs. His partner was still holding his crotch. That’s when Banjo came on the scene.

Don Banjkowski and I went back a long way. The gold bars on his collar got the attention of Super Cop.

Well, Banjo said, are you going to secure that prisoner or do want him to do all of your job for you?

Lieutenant, this guy was brandishing a weapon and… Super Cop ran out of words when he saw the look Banjo gave him. He cuffed the punk and took him from me. I gave him my card and told him I would be happy to testify to the assault on a police officer. He looked confused.

Officer Michaels, this is Red Daley. He was a good cop before he lost his sense of propriety and turned into a reporter, Banjo said. You may want to recover his weapon for him.

Never mind, I said, scooping my .45 back into its holster. You have a prisoner to manage. By the way, this is your arrest. Good police work.

The young guys walked off with the punk. I noticed the purse that started it all lying on the ground. I picked it up and handed it to Banjo. He shook his head and motioned me into his car. We drove to the scene.

Super Cop was looking very uncomfortable until he saw Banjo dismount with the purse in hand. He’d forgotten all about it. He wasn’t having a good night.

The lady I presumed to be the owner of the purse captured my attention. She was what was once called a handsome woman. I’d call her that now. Tall and fit, she had long black hair and eyes that sent messages. Her name was Gail Strang. Banjo introduced me and told her what happened. She thanked me politely and asked Banjo if he could arrange a ride home for her.

My car is just down the street, I said. I’ll give you a lift, Miss Strang.

She looked at me, then to Banjo. He nodded.

Thank you, Mr. Daley, she said. That’s very kind of you but I don’t want to inconvenience you.

It’s no trouble and you’ve had enough trouble for one night. I didn’t know what an understatement that was.

We walked to my car and I opened her door. She was headed for a decent neighborhood on the West side of town. We drove in silence.

I pulled up in front of a nice two-story frame house. It was older but looked well maintained. I walked her to the door and said goodnight after the door was unlocked. I took only a few steps down the walk when I heard her scream.

I ran back in time to catch her as she fainted. A short, heavy man hung in the stairwell. The noose around his neck was embedded in the flesh and his purple tongue protruded from his mouth. I couldn’t find a pulse but I cut him down and laid him on the carpet. I carried the girl outside and called for rescue and cops.

The man in the stairwell was Gail’s father, Gerard Strang, and he was dead. There was nothing to do but wait for the coroner. The cops took my statement and tried to talk to Gail. She was busy with hysteria. I didn’t let her go back inside until the body was removed. They found a note and labeled the death a suicide.

I took Gail to a friend’s house. She couldn’t stay in her place and she shouldn’t be alone. I promised to check on her the next morning. I went home and asked myself why I didn’t get an honest job. I knew the answer: Honest jobs are boring.

The next day dawned bright and warm with a promise of real heat later on. I checked with the coroner’s office and discovered they were treating the death as a suicide. I drove to Gail’s friend’s house to see how she was holding up.

She was still crying but under the tears she was angry. I gave her the news from the coroner and the anger took over from the grief.

He killed my father, she said. He killed him as surely as if he stuck a knife in his heart. Now he’s going to get away with it.

Who killed your father? He took his own life.

Mateo Arnaud. He killed my father by destroying his dream!

Tell me about it, I said.

Gerard Strang was a cook with a dream. He wanted an upscale restaurant. He had the talent but not the money and he picked the wrong partner. According to Gail, Arnaud let her father invest all his savings, all his talent in making his dream come true then whisked it out of his hands through legal maneuvering. Like too many people, Gerard Strang invested his money in his dream instead of a good lawyer. He lost everything and couldn’t accept the fact. The note he left was an apology to his daughter.

I promised Gail I’d look into the matter. She asked me to find justice for her daddy. I don’t deal in justice. That’s God’s department. I deal in facts and appearances. I left.

It’s not hard to find information when you know how to look. The deal Arnaud had suckered Strang into was devious, dirty and completely legal. He turned into my pet project.

Arnaud had been in the city’s planning department. He went from drawing a paycheck to writing them in a remarkably short time. I took his financial background apart and proved a truism: When all else fails, follow the money.

He had set up a web of fronts and corporate dummies. Using them, he grabbed a chunk of money from the city’s revolving development fund. Those were federal dollars parceled out