Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
Chapter 10: Paying a Visit
part 2
Dusk. The electric lamps on Main Street glowed like fireflies on a summer night. Max sat near the open window in his hotel room, catching the ocean breeze. He glanced at a note that was left for him at the front desk. Virginia Moore wanted to meet him the following afternoon at a small park near the Pacific Hotel. He telephoned her boarding house and left a message that he would see her at the appointed time and place.
Max figured her clumsy attempt at a clandestine meeting would draw the attention of several people, most particularly Duke Placco. Was the young woman acting on her own, or as an agent for Lawyer Williams? Max recalled a stratagem he had learned from his Japanese Judo instructor: “Beat the grass to startle the snakes.” Since he had stepped off the train, Santa Teresa seemed to be crawling with startled snakes.
A couple of hours earlier, when he had returned from Phantom Point, he noticed a canary-yellow runabout parked near the hotel entrance. When he entered the lobby, he spotted Placco staked-out on the ottoman. The thug had exchanged his black riding outfit for a snappy double-breasted gray suit. Max guessed Placco had changed his means of transportation, too. The ugly face was half-hidden by another newspaper. Max figured it was about time he made his shadow’s acquaintance.
* * *
Max walked down to the lobby and parked his backside on the ottoman, next to Placco, who looked as if he hadn’t moved for hours. He smiled and turned to the hoodlum. “Evening, pal. Mind if I take a look at the funnies?”
“You a wise guy, or something?” Placco put down the paper and glared at Max.
“No, but I sure hate to miss The Katzenjammer Kids.”
“They ain’t in this paper.”
“Aw, that’s a shame. Anyways, my name’s Matt Rogers. And you are...?”
“What’s it to you?”
“You seem to be taking an interest in my comings and goings. I like to get to know the mugs who tail me.”
“You’re askin’ for it, pal.” Placco bared his gold teeth.
Max glanced toward the front desk and then turned back to Placco. “We seem to have caught the attention of the bell captain and the house dick. They friends of yours?”
Placco snarled, as though he’d exhausted his vocabulary.
“OK, pal. Simmer down. Shadowing someone is boring as hell, and being shadowed is a pain in the ass. I’ve a suggestion. Why don’t we go to the nearest saloon, and I’ll buy you a drink. That way, you can stay on the job and enjoy yourself.”
“Are you on the level?”
“No, I’m Matt Rogers.” Max paused for a positive reaction to his joke, which was not forthcoming. Then: “Yeah, I’m on the level. We’ll go to the saloon, have a couple of drinks, get to know each another, then you can report back to your boss.”
“My boss, huh. And who might that be?”
“That might be Gil Doyle. And you might be Duke Placco.”
Placco stared at Max for a moment before saying, “All right, bud. Let’s go.”
Max followed Placco out of the lobby. As he passed out the doorway, Max glanced back over his shoulder. The startled bell captain and house dick looked down in unison. Max grinned, turned his head and exited to the street.
Placco headed for the yellow runabout.
“That’s quite a machine,” Max said. “Bet she goes like a bat out of hell.”
“You bet she does.”
“What make is it?”
“Apperson Jack Rabbit.”
“Really. You think she could beat a Thomas Flyer?” Max watched Placco’s face for a reaction.
“She’d blow that car off the road,” Placco deadpanned.
“What about John Merwin’s Mercedes?”
“Hey, Rogers, you want to stand here jawing about cars or get on to the saloon?”
Seeing no tell-tale reaction to his mention of the cars, Max said, “OK, Placco; I’m coming.”
* * *
The Bonanza on Front Street was a popular saloon filled with grey tobacco fog pierced by the glow of dozens of electric bulbs. The room reverberated with male voices, laughter, jingling cash registers, and a coin-operated nickelodeon piano banging out the ubiquitous Redwing.
When Max and Placco passed through the bat-wing doors, there was, for a palpable instant, a scene where heads turned and bartenders and waiters froze in place like characters in a motion picture that stops and starts again with the movement of the projector’s crank. Only the mechanical piano played on without noticing the dramatic entrance.
The period of suspended animation lasted from the time Max and Placco entered the saloon until they reached the long oak bar, where patrons made room for the surprising duo the way the Red Sea parted for Moses.
Max ordered two shots of rye with beer chasers. He faced Placco and they began a conversation that drew the attention of Marshal Rivers who observed the pair curiously, from his vantage point of a secluded table in a shadowy corner of the room.
There but for the grace of God go I. The thought crossed Max’s mind as he plied the gangster with alcohol and got him to open up about his past. They had grown up in similar circumstances, the sons of poor immigrants who learned the hard lessons of the streets and alleys of big city America.
But Max had an advantage; his good looks and bright inquisitive mind captured the interest of a young settlement worker, the daughter of an influential judge. She used that influence to get him a job with the Chicago police, where he climbed to the rank of detective lieutenant before leaving the department to pursue a second career as a private investigator.
Max maintained relations with cops, politicians and gangsters, including his old pal Ed Mahoney, the newly made boss of the north side mob. Max lived by a code: since he went straight, there were lines he wouldn’t cross. But he remained pragmatic: shady contacts were useful in his profession. Besides, in a dirty world, no one could be scrupulously clean.
He paid for the third round and turned to Placco. “All right, pal. That’s my limit. If you want more, you’re on your own.”
Placco grinned. “You’re OK, Rogers. Just don’t cross me, ’cause then I might have to kill you.”
“I’ll give you some friendly advice. I’m hard to kill. It’s been tried, plenty of times, by guys as tough as you.” Max looked hard at Placco before adding, “But why talk about killing, when we’re just getting acquainted? You can pass this on to your boss: I’m interested in Phantom Point. If he wants to talk to me about that, he knows where to find me.”
Placco was about to answer when the marshal walked over. “Evening, Duke. I see you’ve made Mr. Rogers’ acquaintance.” Rivers didn’t wait for Placco to reply. He turned to Max. “Evening, Mr. Rogers. Last time we met, you had an unfortunate run of luck. I hope things have picked up for you?”
“Thanks, Marshal. I’d say they’ve improved considerably. Santa Teresa’s a swell place. Nice change from the big city. I could see settling down here, someday.”
“I’ll bet it makes a nice change from the city. By the way, I don’t recall you saying where you’re from?” The thin lips beneath the trimmed moustache cracked a smile, but the old gunslinger’s eyes remained steely.
“Chicago. A great town, but all the noise and hustle can get to you, at times, not to mention the lousy weather.” Max smiled at Rivers. He figured the marshal would be checking up on Chicago real estate brokers by the name of Matt Rogers. He also recalled what Lieutenant Hamlin had said about Rivers: Not a bad guy...but he and his deputies are on Merwin’s payroll. Max figured it was about time he paid a courtesy call on the marshal.
“We ought to get together sometime,” Rivers said as though he had read Max’s mind. “Maybe I’ll give you a chance to get back at me for our last meeting.”
“I’d like that, Marshal, but I’m afraid I’m out of your league when it comes to cards. Still, I guess it’s worth a try.”
“All right; I’ll look forward to it.” Rivers shook hands with Max. Then he turned to Placco. “Stay out of trouble, Duke.”
“You too, Marshal.” The gangster flashed his golden grin.
Rivers left. Max stared after him and then turned to Placco. “Not a bad fellow, is he?”
The gangster snorted. “He’s all right... if you like cops.” Then he turned his attention back to his third shot and beer.
* * *
Max and Placco got plastered. They fed the nickelodeon and closed The Bonanza with their frightening rendition of “Cheyenne.” Having scared off the few remaining patrons, they staggered out through the bat-wing doors and weaved their way up the sidewalk to the Jack Rabbit. Max offered to man the crank.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, bud. If you don’t, it’ll break your arm,” Placco said.
“Don’t worry, pal. You take care of the spark and the throttle. I’ll get her going on the first try.” Max was good as his word. The yellow beast came alive with a roar.
Max stepped onto the running board just as Placco released the brake, put the car in gear and shot up Front Street. Max fell back into the passenger seat as the Jack Rabbit squealed and roared around the corner and sprinted up Main. He barely had time to catch his breath when the car pulled to the curb in front of the hotel and came to a screeching stop that threw Max’s two-hundred-pound frame up against the dashboard.
“Thanks for the ride,” Max mumbled as he stepped down to the curb.
The Jack Rabbit shot away with a squeal of rubber against pavement and rolling thunder blowing out the exhaust.
Max watched as the car disappeared into the darkness. Then he turned and made his way into the lobby, where he bobbed and weaved past the inquisitive eyes of the night clerk, bell captain and house dick.
He managed to climb the stairs, find the landing and the door to his room. He fumbled with the lock, opened the door, closed it behind him and entered. To avoid colliding with the furniture or a wall in the dark, he felt around for the nearest light switch. He turned on the light and oriented himself to his surroundings.
“I gotta piss and soak my head in cold water,” Max mumbled. He set out for the bathroom, which he reached in due course. However, prior to achieving his stated purpose, he retched and threw up into the toilet. Feeling relieved, he pulled the chain and flushed the vomit. Then he ran the cold tap, unbuttoned his fly and finished his lavatory business.
With his body partially purged, Max left the bathroom and headed straight for bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress and removed his shoes. The act of bending over put him down for the count. He rolled onto the bedclothes and drifted off into an alcohol-induced nightmare.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
