The Blind Pig (15 page)

Mulheisen blew out a long plume of smoke. The cigar comforted him. “Tell me,” he said.

“He ran out of brass. Couldn't get enough! Not enough brass! Is this the United States of America, or what?”

“So that's all Ol’ Earl had to say?”

“No. He said I should switch to Winchester 158 grain JHP for the Python, unless I load myself, or I could get it from
him. I think I might have him load me some. I just don't have the time for it. On the other hand, Earl thinks I ought to go to a bigger caliber, maybe S and W's Model 29, .44 mag. Then I could use the Remington 240 grain JHP.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mulheisen said.

“Say, that guy who got shot by Stanos? Earl never heard of him—he
says.
Maybe he's not lying. Why should Earl lie about something like that? Anyway, he gave me another name. Lorry the Shoe. That name ring a bell?”

Mulheisen thought for a moment. “Down on Woodward? Hangs out in those bars around Sibley, that area? He's a hustler. He hustles shoes.”

“You win a cigar,” the Menace said. “Lorry is your genuine character. He specializes in getting you a pair of shoes, cheap. But he can also get you other things. In fact, just about anything you want, except a woman. Lorry hates women. But guns, that's his best item, according to Ol’ Earl. Hell, he might even get you a guy to shoot the gun for you.”

“Where does Lorry hang out, when he's not in the bars?” Mulheisen asked.

“He's usually in the pigs pretty late, but I wouldn't look for him there tonight.”

“Why not?” Mulheisen asked.

“We're going tipping tonight,” the Menace said, grinning cruelly. “Your buddy Phelps is fed up with no results. He doesn't like the press he's getting, so the ATF is going to do something spectacular. He's planning to hit a whole shit pile of pigs tonight. It's bullshit, I know, but it sounds like fun, too.”

“You're going out with them?”

“We all are,” the Menace said. “Fact is, I think I better take a little nap if I'm going to be up all night.” He smacked a huge fist into his open palm. “Hot times tonight! We're gonna whack ‘em!”

“Do you know if they're hitting Brandywine?” Mulheisen asked. “Or Benny?”

“Not Benny. But Brandywine, it looks like it.”

“Do me a favor,” Mulheisen said, “if you run across Lorry in any of these raids, let me know. I'd like to talk to him.”

“Run across him? Hell, I'm liable to run over him.” The Menace guffawed. “Well, I got to split. Time for my beauty sleep. Bye!” He waved a huge paw.

Mulheisen immediately dialed Benny Singleton.

“Hey, Mul, I was just thinking about you,” Benny said. “Is what I hear on the level?”

“What did you hear?” Mulheisen asked.

“About a bunch of blind pigs gonna get tipped over tonight,” Benny said.

“It's a possibility,” Mulheisen said. “But I don't think you have anything to worry about, Benny.”

“I wasn't worried, Mul. I was just thinking, I might better put out more stock tonight and get me another bartender. If everybody else is closed, I might have a big night.” He laughed.

“Benny, do you know a guy named Lorry the Shoe?”

“Lorry the Shoe? No, I don't. Where does he hang out?”

Mulheisen told him.

“Brandywine'd know him,” Benny said. “Want me to give him a call?”

“I'd like to talk to Brandywine anyway,” Mulheisen said. “Do you think you could invite him over? It would be to his advantage, you can tell him.”

“You mean right now? Well, I'll try. Say, you had dinner yet? Well, I'll tell you what you do,” Benny said. “My sister, who keeps house for me here, she's gone and cooked up a whole pile of ribs. I was just sitting down to them when you called. Why don't you come along and have some and I'll try to get the ‘Big Buck’ over here. That's what I call him. He says he don't like it, but I think he does.”

“I'm on my way,” Mulheisen said.

Seventeen

The French fries were a trifle soggy, but Mulheisen didn't mind. He was there to eat ribs, and they were delicious. He didn't even look at the coleslaw. “Nothing in my long experience has conditioned me to appreciate shredded cabbage mixed with a watery dressing,” he explained to Benny. There was a murmur of agreement from Benny, muffled by the sound of barbecued ribs being devoured.

Eating barbecued ribs is a messy process. It took several towels to clean up afterwards. “Got to keep the kitchen clean,” Benny explained. “My sister come back from the movies and find the kitchen a mess, I'm done for.” Afterwards they went next door to “the club,” as Benny liked to refer to it. Brandywine was already there, sipping a brandy Alexander he had made for himself.

Brandywine looked particularly outrageous, with a great green velvet cape slung over his shoulders. He wore the large black slouch hat and it had a green feather in it, about a foot and a half long. Below a shimmering silverish blouse with voluminous sleeves, green velour knickers gave way to knee-high yellow boots that laced all the way up the front and featured three-inch stacked soles and heels.

Mulheisen could hardly refrain from whistling. Brandy-wine smiled slowly. “Hey, baby, have a drink.”

Mulheisen obliged and Benny mixed him a Black Jack Ditch. It was still fairly early. The blind pig was not open for business yet, since the bars were not closed. Very likely, Benny's would be crowded tonight.

Mulheisen thought the raids would probably start early, because there were going to be so many of them. Ordinarily a blind pig wouldn't be raided until three, at least, and usually later. There had to be time for the drinkers to get from the bars, get themselves another drink and for things to sort of get under way at the blind pig. In the meantime the vice squad's undercover man would get inside, make a purchase and examine the layout. If he had a partner, the partner would leave and tip the raiding party outside that things were ready. At a prearranged moment the inside man, or men, would take up stations watching the bar, watching the back door and keeping an eye on the toilet (so nobody could flush dope down the drain). The outside men arrived with the warrant, everybody was informed that it was a bust, and from that point on, things went their usual orderly way. The paddy wagon carted everybody off to the local precinct and booked them. In the morning the prisoners were transferred downtown, their fingerprints and records were checked, and off they went to Morning Court to plead guilty to “loitering,” or maintaining an “illegal occupation.” The fine for the first offense was usually $10; for the second, $30 to $300. Usually, everybody paid and went home and the following night found them back at their favorite blind pig.

Tonight it might be a little different, Mulheisen thought. The ATF was along, and they tended to be more serious about these things. Also, they were looking for dangerous criminals, or leads to them. They weren't just shutting down blind pigs whose half-life had expired. Mulheisen had little doubt that the ATF would find no trace of the hijackers.

“My man Benny says you want to talk to me, Fang,” Brandywine said. “What about?”

“I was in your place the other night and ran into Mandy Cecil. You seemed to know her. How come?”

“She comes in from time to time. Just a customer,” Brandywine said.

“Always with the same people?”

“I don't know who you mean.”

“Well, who does she usually come in with?” Mulheisen asked.

“Let's get one thing straight, Sergeant Fang. I'm here talking to you because Benny says you're a friend of his. But you ain't no friend of mine, you dig? I have myself a little place down on Riopelle and I don't have no trouble there. Nothing heavy going down in my place. So I ain't worried about you. What my customers do is they own business. It ain't mine, it ain't yours.”

“What about the Cubans? Do they come in often?” Mulheisen asked.

“I told you . . .” Brandywine mocked a look of theatrical exasperation. “I don't know no Cubans.”

“You know Mandy Cecil, though,” Mulheisen pointed out, “and she has disappeared. I just wonder if you know anyone else who has disappeared lately.”

Brandywine finished his drink with a loud slurp and put it down on the bar. Benny, who had withdrawn to the other end, came along and picked it up. “You want another?” he asked.

“I do, if Dr. Fang here is buying,” Brandywine said.

“Sure, I'll buy,” Mulheisen said. “Let me have another, too, Benny.” When the drinks were mixed and Benny had gone back down the bar, Mulheisen said, “I'll do better than buy you a drink, Brandywine. I gather that you pull in quite a nice piece of change at your place most nights. How much do you think you'll net tonight?”

Brandywine glanced at him through hooded eyes. Mulheisen realized that the man wore quite a bit of makeup, including eye shadow.

“I know what you're talking about, Fang. As a matter of
fact, I decided to take a little vacation tonight.”

“That's smart, Brandy wine. Except that you won't have much income for the night.”

“
Comme ci
,
comme ça
,” Brandywine said, with a toss of his elegant head.

“In exchange for a little information, I think I could arrange for you to be open tonight,” Mulheisen said.

Brandywine thought about that for a while, then said, “Make the arrangement.”

Mulheisen went into Benny's back room and dialed the ATF. Phelps was finally in. He was very excited. He had learned that someone approximating the description of Angel DeJesus had flown out of City Airport at 5:45
P.M.
on the afternoon of the hijacking in a leased Apache. Apparently, the aircraft carried two other passengers, who were not named. The flight plan had been filed for Green Bay, Wisconsin, but the aircraft had not arrived at Green Bay. Instead, the pilot had radioed for an amended flight plan while en route, naming Lafayette, Indiana, as his destination. From Lafayette the airplane had been tracked as far as Dallas, Texas, via Memphis, Tennessee, and Little Rock, Arkansas. There was a VFR clearance out of Dallas, naming San Antonio as the destination. From that point on there was no trace of the aircraft. Phelps was very hopeful, however.

Mulheisen asked him if he still intended to raid the blind pigs. Phelps affirmed that he was. The operation was all geared up and it would be difficult to cancel now, even though it no longer looked like such a worthwhile project.

“Still, you don't know, Sergeant, it could produce something.”

“I'd just like one name left off the list, if you can manage it, Phelps. There's a possibility of getting some good information on Cecil, as well as DenBoer and the Cubans.”

Phelps balked when he heard that it was Brandywine's place, one of his prime targets, but he gave in when Mulheisen pointed out that the City Airport lead had been Mulheisen's contribution.

“You're back in business,” Mulheisen told Brandywine. “Now, let's have it.”

“Well, usually she comes in with Mark Spitz, that's what I call him. And another dude I call Po'kchop.”

Mulheisen gathered from the descriptions that Brandywine meant Vanni and DenBoer. It amused him to think that Brandywine's identification of Vanni with Mark Spitz was shared by a fat, middle-aged white woman who ran a hot-sheet motel.

“Tell me about the Cubans,” Mulheisen said.

“They come in a lot, not always all together and not always with Cecil. Fact is, I mostly seen just three of them: Angel, Frank, and Heitor. Sometimes they ask for a room, like they was going to play cards, but they don't play no cards. They sit in there and talk to Mark Spitz and Po'kchop.”

“What did they talk about?” Mulheisen asked, suppressing his interest as best as he could.

“I don't know. Revolution, I guess.” Brandywine grinned. “Man, them revolutionaries is bad business. I don't go for no revolutionaries.”

“Why is that?”

“Let's face it, baby, I'm Establishment. It may not be up-front Establishment, but it's still business. I see they still ain't no casinos in Havana, and that's gettin’ on to twenty years that Castro been in power.”

“Tell me about guns, Brandy. Did the Cubans ever ask you about guns?”

“You mean like ‘Where can I get one?’ That kind of thing? Man, everybody asks where they can get a gun. Sure, they asked. I told them to go see Lorry.”

Mulheisen felt a little thrill run along his spine. “Lorry the Shoe?” he asked.

“That's the only Lorry I know about,” Brandywine answered.

“Did they see Lorry?”

“You have to ask Lorry that.”

“Good idea,” Mulheisen said. “Where do I find him?”

“He ain't been around the last couple of days,” Brandywine said. “Somebody mentioned he was in the Detroit House of Correction, picked up on some chickenshit peddling charge.”

“So Lorry's a gun dealer, is that it?”

“That's what they say.” Brandywine yawned. “Anyway, your Cubans, they don't need no guns. They got all the guns they need—I just throw that one in for free, Fang.” He winked lewdly. “Now, some of the brothers, they'd like to talk to them Cubans, too. Lots of people would like to get their hands on those guns.”

“I know,” Mulheisen said. “You haven't heard anything about Cecil, then?”

Brandywine shook his head slowly. Mulheisen had to accept that. If there was any news about Cecil, Brandywine would know about it. The only question was, Would Brandywine tell him about it? Well, why not? Mulheisen decided that Brandywine would tell him, providing it didn't involve himself or any of his people.

Benny came and gave them a couple more drinks while Mulheisen pondered. Brandywine grew restless and wandered across the little barroom to play the jukebox. Soon the strident tones of a Motown group filled the room.

So, what did he have? He had pretty good evidence that Vanni and DenBoer were involved with the Cubans on the hijacking. But in what way? The Cubans had needed guns, obviously, in order to carry out the operation. Perhaps they had gotten them from Vanni. Mulheisen presumed that Den-Boer had been the go-between, the gun bearer. And now DenBoer was absent. Quite possibly the Cubans had accepted the guns and then had decided to dump DenBoer as well, as a possible threat to their security. If Mandy Cecil was with DenBoer, she would have been dumped, too, whether the Cubans knew she was an ATF agent or not.

Brandywine was jigging about by himself, next to the jukebox. Mulheisen watched him without paying real attention.
He was reminded, inevitably, that all of Vanni's sudden surfacing in the public eye could be due to an attempt by the mob to pressure him on account of his vending-machine operation. Mulheisen felt that he had strayed dangerously from this initial and orthodox view of the whole affair. It was always a mistake to find complexity where none existed, he knew. But for him Mandy Cecil had changed everything.

“Who else did the Cubans talk to?” he called out to Brandywine.

The tall black man paused, as if irritated, then posed in a mockery of Thought, with one hand on his hip and a long forefinger poking into his lip. He started to say something, then just flipped his hand. “Just about anybody.” He turned back to the machine.

“Wait a minute,” Mulheisen said. “Satisfaction guaranteed, remember? I still have time to put you back on the list.”

Brandywine didn't turn around. “If I open up and I get tipped, you gonna owe me, Fang. We made our deal. You gonna owe me bad.”

“Ask Benny if I'm straight,” Mulheisen said calmly, knowing that Brandywine already had been thoroughly assured of that or he wouldn't be here. “I'm just looking for a straight end to my deal. But I'll make it easy on you. Angel talked to an undertaker, right?”

Brandywine smiled his grand, lovely smile. “The way you say it amuses me,” he said. “I'll give you one name, and that's it.”

“Shoot.”

Two minutes later Mulheisen was on the telephone to the 19th Precinct. It was his luck that Lt. Del Moser was still there. “I didn't think I'd catch you this late,” Mulheisen said.

“They got us roped in on this blind-pig raid,” Moser said wearily.

“Can you get away for a bit? It may not take long,” Mulheisen said. “See if you can run down a Jabe Cook, he's a black undertaker, over on Dexter. There's a possibility that
DeJesus or one of the other Cubans may have rented a hearse from him. Check it out, you know what to look for.”

Mulheisen hung up and dialed the Record Bureau. He asked for the file on Lorry the Shoe.

“That shouldn't be hard,” the officer assured him. Mulheisen held on the phone. It took almost fifteen minutes. Benny brought another Black Jack Ditch.

“Hello, Sergeant Mulheisen? Sorry I took so long. It's all in the computer now, so it's supposed to be faster, right? Only, now you have to stand in line for an open terminal. Well, here it is. You want to copy?”

“Let's have it.”

“ ‘Lorry the Shoe.’ Real name, Lorenzo Shmuel Feinsch-mecker. How about that?” The officer spelled the name. “Born in Danzig (then in Germany, now in Poland), 1923. Emigrated to U.S. with parents, 1934. Naturalized citizen. Jewish faith. Graduated New York University, 1947, BA degree in Business Administration. Convicted grand larceny, fraud, 1954, New York City. Sentenced eight to ten, served three at Attica, New York State Corrections. Released parole, 1960. Employed by T. J. Kidder Construction Company, same year, a Detroit firm, as bookkeeper, with approval of parole officer. No further notations. He must have gone straight.”

“I just heard he was in DeHoCo,” Mulheisen said.

“If you want to wait a few minutes, I'll check with Prisoner Information for you,” the officer said. He was back after a brief wait. “Nope. No Feinschmeckers, no Fines, no Shoes. Any other aliases?”

Mulheisen couldn't think of any. He thanked the officer and hung up. He went back into the other room to ask Brandywine where Lorry hung out, but Brandywine was gone.

Benny shrugged. “He said ‘Business calls,’ and split.”

Mulheisen went back to the telephone and called the 13th Precinct detectives—that was the general area of Lorry's
haunts. He got a Sergeant Coleman, who said he knew Lorry quite well.