FRANK JAGGER Gang Wars part 2

Copyright (c) 2020 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

FRANK JAGGER

GANG WARS

Part 2

By R. Peterson

An Albatross crew member was pressing both hands against my back forcing Michigan Lake water out of my lungs while another removed the cable they had used to pull me, and the chunk of cement my feet were encased in, to the surface. I wasn’t dead … but I wanted to be. Albert McGooganheimer stood next to Captain O'Sullivan. “I’m sorry if we caused you some discomfort,” he said. “We had to be sure you couldn’t be persuaded to disclose any of my secrets.”

When I heard the word discomfort I reached for the forty-five I kept inside my dripping coat … but of course it was gone. “Next time, remind me to ask for a bigger retainer!” I sounded like a sick beaver gnawing on a tree. The retort wasn’t nearly as good as a bullet would have been … but it would have to do. One of the crewmen offered me a cigarette; I shook my head. My lungs already felt like they were filled with ashes. Captain O’Sullivan offered me a tin cup that I’d watched him fill with Old Forester Bourbon Whiskey. I snatched the bottle from him and tried to put out the fire in my throat. Machine Gun had to know everything about me … including my exact taste in booze. “Now that you know I don’t sing,” I told him when I stopped gulping. “How can I make you happy?”

            “I’m a family man,” McGooganheimer said. I wanted to laugh but I didn’t dare. The cement was still encased around my feet; a crew member with a hammer was busting it away.

“Most people think all I care about is money and power,” he went on. “That’s not true. I have a twenty-two year old daughter from my third wife named Lynette. She means more to me than a bakery full of dough. She was kidnapped about a week ago by what I assume is a rival business organization.”

            “You haven’t received a ransom demand?”

            “Not exactly,” Albert said. “Lynette caught that Hollywood virus so many young girls get. She was singing in one of my speakeasies called the Delicia. After the club closed at 3 AM both her bodyguards were found in the alley wearing Sicilian neckties. My employees always turn the chairs over and place them on the tables before they clean. An envelope with my name on it was taped to the bottom of one of the seats.”

Machine Gun handed me an envelope with his name typed on the front. There was a single sheet of paper inside with these words also typed. Daddy Bear! Please get out of the alcohol importation business … so I can come home!

            “Daddy Bear?”

            “It’s what Lynette called me at home.” McGooganheimer smiled. It made my flesh crawl.

            “Any idea who sent the note?”

            “We know where the note was typed,” Albert took a card from his pocket. “Typewriters are like fingerprints,’ he said. “Each one types slightly different letters on the page!” He handed me the card. It was last year’s license application for my Packard Town Car filled out in the name of Jagger Investigations. “I have lots of employees moonlighting at the DMV … and many other city offices.” He didn’t have to tell me I knew … especially the court house and police stations.

            “This note was typed on the old Royal … sitting on your office desk!”

-------2-------

            I didn’t go back in the water. Albert must have figured one bath a day was enough. I had the distinct feeling that if I failed to return his daughter unharmed … getting clean would be the least of my worries.

            There were only two people with keys to my office. I was all thumbs and it took an hour for me to type my own name. I went looking for Linda Farmgirl.

The bed in her upstairs apartment was made and when I asked, the stack of mail outside her door said she hadn’t been home for three days. I threatened the pile of newspapers, rent and utility bills that if they were lying … I’d be back with matches. A hungry cat named Felix almost bit through my shoe. Linda’s closet was filled with a rainbow assortment of flapper dresses and her bedroom drawers held mostly black lacy underwear. The Jagger Investigations envelope, with most of her pay still in it, was under a Ballerina music box.  There was a framed picture of Linda and her little sister with both parents at a train station. Her mother looked like she’d been crying. I fed her cat and watered a dozen house plants. My secretary lived better than I did.

I remembered Linda saying that Beth worked in one of Machine Gun’s clubs. Now I only had to find out which one … as far as I knew, he had over three-hundred of them … just in Illinois.

-------3-------

Twelve year old Sean O’Brian hawked newspapers on the west end of Water Street when he wasn’t running numbers for bookies. He knew which pony was going to win each week’s special race and you could know too … for a price. I figured if anyone knew where Farmgirl’s sister worked he would. He looked the train station photo carefully. “She’s catch and release,” he said. “No hooking!” He was telling me that Beth wasn’t a prostitute. “Try the Horn Section,” he said. “Downtown … below the Community Bank.” Sean pressed two fifties into my hand. “Tell Chester the doorman he has a gift for picking winners!”

“I don’t run numbers,” I told him … trying to give the dough back.

“And I don’t give away free information,” Sean said.

-------4-------

There was a line even before the stairs. Chester ordered me to “beat it” before I even told him who I was. He took the fifties and waved me inside after I gave him Sean’s message. There was a Negro jazz-band on stage with a complete orchestral horn section … thus the name. I scanned the crowd while I waited for a table. I gave away two fives and a ten … before one with two chairs opened up. About half the women in the place were working prostitutes … the other half were retired. A sultry blonde in a black cat-suit was singing multiple versions of Stardust while the horn section blew her kisses and the piano player ran his long, sensitive fingers up and down her many keys. A waiter poured my whiskey. He wanted twenty for the bottle. I paid him.

I hadn’t spotted Beth and from what Sean said … she didn’t work the back rooms. I was just about to try another club when the door crashed inward. Chester went flying end over end and landed on a table occupied by four city cops. The former doorman looked like an elephant I’d seen shot on safari photo. Blood dripped from a bullet wound in his head. Someone sprayed two tables to the left of the stage with a machine gun. “Everyone still breathing stay where you are!” a loud voice warned, “and finish your drinks!”

“This is an official police investigation!” another said as the smoke cleared. The cops at the broken table all gaped at the men wearing trench coats. “Not you meter monkeys!” The shooter pointed at the uniforms with his smoking gun barrel as if daring them to ask to see his badge. “You get the hell out in the street and block off all the traffic … from here to Detroit!” All four officers jumped up and became instantly on duty.

One of the oldest assailants walked to the stage and gave the singer a twenty. “Play In the Jailhouse Now.” He smiled and a woman screamed. We all listened to the band’s cover of the popular song by Jimmie Rodgers … and we really tried to act like we enjoyed it.

The detectives frisked everyone before we were lined up and crammed into a half-dozen paddy wagons. We were sitting on bales of straw. I could smell expensive perfume on the broad almost in my lap but it wasn’t until the guy across from me lit a cigarette that I saw her face.

“Hello,” I said.

It was Linda’s little-sister … Beth.

TO BE CONTINUED …