The el Toro Problem and Other Stories: Introducing Larry Carmody, Private Investigator

By Anders Bellis

Larry Carmody, private investigator, lives in a nighttime world of 1930s crime noir, a world of bottomless cynicism, triple standards, and scathingly black humor. There is no doing good in the world of Larry Carmody. There is only the cynicism and black humor needed to stay alive in the midst of convoluted plots and the nighttime world of crime. For some, that is. The accomplished and lucky ones. The rest perish.
In the world of Larry Carmody, you have to get the low-down. And you have to find a way out. Otherwise someone will show you the foolproof way out, by means of force-feeding you lead with an equalizer.
Larry Carmody himself says: “A case can sometimes be opened and shut in no time. It doesn’t often go down that way, but when it does, you can most often exchange the word ‘shut’ for the word ‘shot’. And I am not speaking of a shot of whisky in an instance such as this. I am using the word ‘shot’ in the sense of the main player in the case having been shot to death. Usually my client.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398451759

Anders Bellis

Anders Bellis, who in everyday life is called just Bellis, by one and all, as if that was his first or only name, loves the beauty and serenity of autumn. His foremost but far from only interest in life is evolutionary biology. Not enjoying searing sunshine or strong light, he will hardly ever be seen without his shades, and never without his sheriff’s badge.

Book preview

About the Author

Anders Bellis, who in everyday life is called just Bellis, by one and all, as if that was his first or only name, loves the beauty and serenity of autumn. His foremost but far from only interest in life is evolutionary biology. Not enjoying searing sunshine or strong light, he will hardly ever be seen without his shades, and never without his sheriff’s badge.

Dedication

For Åsa Kuntze Söderqvist,

who literally saved my life

For Christina Kamma,

who is not a criminal

but on whom

Christina the Cracker

is based

For Helena Erikssson,

who is not a criminal

but on whom

Helen the Himalayan

is based

Copyright Information ©

Anders Bellis 2022

The right of Anders Bellis to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398451735 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398451742 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398451759 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My profound thanks to Larry Carmody, private investigator,

for detailing his cases to me.

The el Toro Problem

Putting the word out on the street can be dangerous, but I had to.

When I woke up in my office, the only thing I could remember was the fist planted in my face. I had just come back from tailing a guy’s wife for the fourth time on the suspicion that she was having an affair, but after having followed her, walking aimlessly around for hours only to see her finally return home, I thought I’d go back to the office and sort through some papers long overdue at the IRS. If I could find the papers. When I opened the office door, the fist landed in my face. Two heavies, of that much I was sure. Judging from my broken ribs, my bruises, and my headache, these two heavies had given me an enthusiastic going over once I was down. Problem was, I didn’t have a clue as to why, nor from whom, these heavies came. I am a small-time operator, mostly working cases concerning extramarital affairs and minor frauds, and there was at this time of which I am speaking no reason for anyone to send a couple of heavies to rough me up. Or that’s what I thought.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Painfully, I made my way to Joe’s, where I had some whiskies, two of his half-fried eggs, a piece of meat, and a cup of tar-black coffee. Sitting there smoking, I had another whisky and waited for one of the cobwebs to show up. These guys, the cobwebs, are the know-it-all informants, giving anyone needing any piece of low-down about what’s going down on the streets this low-down, provided you pay the price. Cobwebs will either know of any event of any significance or they will find out. And that’s why I’d put the word out on the street that I wanted to see a cobweb at Joe’s.

It was around three o’clock at night and drizzling, and I was well into my pack of cigarettes, and hurting like a gunshot in the chest for every puff, before Jimmy the Tie showed up. Now, Jimmy the Tie is the one guy who never wears a tie. He is called Jimmy the Tie on account of a couple of guys once trying to off him down by the harbor, but Jimmy the Tie is a mighty resourceful guy, and what with one thing and another going down in this fight, he managed to slam one of them senseless, cut off his tie with the knife this guy dropped when he was slammed senseless, and strangle the other guy to death with the tie. Now, I’ve never understood why Jimmy the Tie didn’t simply use the knife on this other guy, but it’s always plenty hard to figure out what Jimmy the Tie is going to do next in any kind of situation. Maybe that’s his edge, what makes him such a good cobweb. Also, he likes to do things in style. And you’ve got to hand it to him. Jimmy the Tie is a fancier name than Jimmy the Knife, which sounds very common and which is what he would have been called had he used the knife.

Anyway, into Joe’s came Jimmy the Tie, and when he saw my huge shiner and the bruises on my face, he laughed out loud and said as follows:

Jeez, Larry, what’s doing? You don’t look too good. Got a cold or something?

I didn’t reply to that. Instead, I invited him for a drink. Jimmy the Tie always drinks beer instead of hard liquor. Says it keeps his head clear. Rhymes, he says. Beer and clear. So it must be true, he says. After we’d chatted for a while about the races and the new show at Club Zeus, and this and that, I told him about the two heavies and that I’d like to know what that proposition was all about. Now, Jimmy the Tie hadn’t heard about anyone having it in for me, and was mighty surprised or at least pretended to be, maybe in order to up what I had to pay him to get this low-down. He said he would have it for me in a day at the outside, and after giving him thirty smackers and another beer, I told him to call Cindy when he knew anything.

Then I left.

Cindy became all upset when she saw me and started fussing with wads of cotton, disinfectants, band-aids, and other such implements. I told her to lay it off. All I needed was a drink or two and some sleep. She started crying and wanted me to go to the emergency ward, but I told her that the only emergency was that I was running out of cigarettes and had given my last dough to Jimmy the Tie, so could she maybe go down to the drugstore on the corner and get me another pack? Cindy finally stopped crying and went down to the drugstore, but in the meantime, I more or less passed out after just one glass of whisky—a double, but anyway—and slept well into the day.

What I remember next are two things. The sunshine and the ringing. This sunshine hurting my eyes, this ringing hurting my ears. There was an earthquake rumbling around in my head and the ringing in my ears didn’t make it any better. Cindy answered the phone. It was Jimmy the Tie, who asked to talk to me and who cheerfully told me that the low-down had been a bit hard to come by, so I owed him another thirty smackers, and could I come down to Joe’s and give it to him and he would tell me what he’d found out?

Come off it, Jimmy. I don’t have any dough at the moment. I’ll get it for you, no problem, but spill the beans now. I sort of need to know quite urgently.

Yeah, well, I guess you do. Jimmy the Tie chuckled. Now, when Jimmy the Tie chuckles, that’s a bad sign. Not that Jimmy the Tie is a bad guy as such, but he does have a sense of humor which he carefully nurtures with the problems of others. Maybe that’s also what makes him such a good cobweb. He is curious. He likes to find things out and gleefully pass on bad news. One wouldn’t think it to see him, what with his handsome face and fancy clothes minus a tie, but there you go.

Believe it or not, said Jimmy the Tie to me at the other end, but the guy who’s got it in for you is none other than Paulie el Toro. By now Jimmy the Tie was laughing out loud.

I nearly laughed out loud too, but my broken ribs quickly stopped me by hurting very much indeed.

Yeah, yeah, sure Jimmy, I said. Funny-funny. Now, lay off the comedy and give me the low-down.

Suddenly, Jimmy the Tie turned all serious on me and said as follows: No, I mean it, Larry. It is Paulie el Toro. It’s got something to do with the cops busting Lucky Dice the other night. He had paid them off, as usual, so they shouldn’t have. But apparently, he hadn’t told them that he also runs a knocking shop in the back rooms. They probably figured they should have been paid off for that as well or at least been invited for a few freebies. Anyway, they busted him. He is mighty upset, you know. Mighty upset.

I listened with what could best be described as icy chills down my spine, my mouth going dry. Jimmy the Tie sounded like he meant it. I motioned to Cindy to pour me a glass of whisky and spent a few disbelieving moments thinking about what Jimmy the Tie had said.

Still there? asked Jimmy the Tie cheerfully.

Jimmy, I said very slowly after a sip or two of whisky, lighting a cigarette, I know about the bust. The word has been out on the street for a couple of nights. But where do I fit into the picture?

I heard Jimmy the Tie light a cigarette at the other end. Then he said:

As far as I could gather, you’ve been seen coming and going in and out of an apartment building where an undercover is currently staying. Turns out this undercover of whom I am speaking was at Lucky Dice three nights in a row. He even became quite friendly with Paulie himself, since this undercover was a big spender around the tables. Federal money he got in order to pursue his investigation, of course. But quite naturally, nobody knew that at the time. He is a good undercover, as it turns out. Not even I knew about him. And let me state that, as a matter of fact, this undercover was even invited into Paulie’s office. You get the picture, right? Well, they say Paulie’s face was something else to behold when in storms this undercover with about ten uniforms and busts his place. They didn’t arrest anyone, not yet, but they emptied Paulie’s desk drawers and they took all the dough they could find. Which wasn’t much if you compare to what was actually stashed in the joint, but anyway. All they could find…—here Jimmy the Tie made a pause to chuckle again—…and you don’t have to put too many twos together to figure out who the snitch was, now do you? Especially since it’s well known to one and all that you had a lucky streak the other week and went spending like crazy at the Starshine Ballroom.

Silence for a beat. Two beats. Three.

I groaned. Inwardly.

Now come on, Jimmy… Do you believe I was the snitch? And what apartment building? Where? I don’t even know who this undercover of whom you are speaking is! I’ve just heard about the cops busting Paulie’s place. Didn’t hear about an undercover.

"I didn’t say I believe you’re the snitch, Larry. But Paulie el Toro does. And somehow you seem to have forgotten to pay me to find out some low-down clearing your name. Jimmy the Tie chuckled again. And the apartment building is situated on 4 Figmore Street."

What? Why didn’t Paulie just have his heavies finish me off then?

A sigh at the other end, telling me that Jimmy the Tie was rolling his eyes.

Think, Larry. If you’ve suddenly learned how to do that, I mean. He chuckled again. My guess is Paulie el Toro wants the low-down. He thinks you’re working this case with the feds and that you know what they’re up to and what they’re going to do next. And especially how much they know. The heavies last night were just meant to scare you off from any more snitching. Paulie is going to call you in for a meet. I think you’d better go. See to it that you give me the thirty.

And then Jimmy the Tie chuckled again and hung up.

I just sat there, pouring another whisky and smoking one cigarette after another. Snitching on Paulie el Toro is not stupid. It’s the equivalent of putting an equalizer to your head and force-feed your brain lead. Twice, for good measure. The only way I would snitch on Paulie el Toro is if I was paid enough dough to leave for Australia or some such far off place before doing the snitching.

Now, Paulie el Toro is the head of the biggest outfit in this town of ours and he used to claim that he was of Italian descent and thus part of the mafia. However, since he got his name el Toro, which means ‘the Bull’ in Spanish, Paulie el Toro instead claims to be of Spanish descent and nowadays becomes very upset if anyone claims he is of Italian descent. And Paulie el Toro is called Paulie el Toro on account of him once staging a bullfight down in the harbor. The thing is, Paulie had to off a guy, which is a not infrequent occurrence, and so he and his heavies brought the guy down to the harbor, which is the usual place to off a guy since down at the harbor you can throw the guy into the water with a bag containing very many heavy stones tied around his neck. They took this guy to Paulie’s warehouse, where they had hidden some cattle. According to Paulie, these cattle had voluntarily walked off a ship and into his warehouse just a few days earlier, and Paulie had sold these cattle to some Texan or other but failed to deliver, the reason for this failed delivery being that he’d got a better price from a few of the butchers at the market down by the harbor area and was going to sell these same cattle all over again. This proposition would earn him more than twice the original earnings since this Texan I mentioned had already paid him. Anyway, in this herd of cattle, there was a large bull. So Paulie and his heavies arranged a bullfight with the guy who was to be offed as the bullfighter. There were no bets as to the outcome, however, for there was a slight change of rules from the rules of a Spanish bullfight. The difference between this guy who was to be offed in Paulie’s warehouse and a real bullfighter was that the guy to be offed was all tied up when they put him in the temporary pen with the bull and then shot the bull with a few rounds out of a shotgun. The bull got mighty furious, but since it was held in this pen and couldn’t get to anyone except the tied-up guy who was going to be offed, the bull offed the guy to loud cheers from Paulie and his heavies. That’s how Paulie el Toro got his name and came to claim he is of Spanish descent. Although to tell you the truth, I don’t think he is. His origin was, however, of very little concern to me at this moment in time of which I am speaking. I was thinking more along the lines of how I was going to explain to him that the reason I’d been going in and out of this apartment building on 4 Figmore Street was that this was where the guy whose wife I had been tailing lived, together with his wife. I had been there on three occasions to collect my fee when his wife wasn’t home since the guy was very much depressed because of his wife’s affair and claimed that he couldn’t bring himself to come to my office and give me the dough. On one of these occasions, he was so depressed that he even refused to open the door, and I actually had to kick it until the lock nearly broke, shouting that I was going to up with my equalizer if he didn’t open up and give me my fee. Anyway, my client refused to give up on the notion that his wife was having an affair, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, which meant there was no evidence at all, so I continued adding to what he owed me by just taking walks along dark streets some thirty yards behind his wife. This suited me fine, as I never tailed her without having pocketed the office bottle. I never had a clue that there was also a federal undercover staying in this same building, and that this undercover was the guy responsible for the bust at Paulie el Toro’s gambling joint Lucky Dice, with its knocking shop in the rear. And really, if Jimmy the Tie hadn’t known about the undercover, how could I have known about him? Neither did I have any idea how I was going to make Paulie el Toro believe my story, especially after my big spending night at the Starshine Ballroom, when I had told one and all that an aunt of mine had died in Seattle, leaving me a bundle of dough. That hadn’t been exactly true, as one and all understood, since the aunt dying in Seattle is everyday speech for having obtained some unexpected dough in an unexpected way. What dough I had on me that night came from an investigation into a small-time company whose boss suspected embezzlement, so I had tailed the company’s accountant and, sure enough, seen him cash several checks in a bank, all these checks at the same time. So I waited outside the bank until this accountant came back out and told him that I had a business proposition, and over a drink, in a nearby bar I showed him my camera and informed him that I’d taken a few interesting photographs of him and that if I told his employer what I had seen and showed his employer these photographs, this would be a matter for the cops, and the cops are mighty expensive to pay off. So I had a proposition. If the accountant gave me half the dough he’d got from cashing those checks, I would just clam shut about the whole affair and pretend that I hadn’t seen a thing. We went out into the back alley behind the bar and the accountant gave me a bundle of dough. But I didn’t trust this accountant, since he had been embezzling from his employer, which meant he was dishonest. And so I was rather frank with him, pushing him up against the wall, taking his wallet, and going through its contents. And sure enough, it turned out he hadn’t given me half the dough, but rather something like thirty-five percent. So I saw to it that he gave me one hundred percent instead,