City of Dark Corners by Jon Talton (novels to read .txt) 📗

professional class, which included college-educated doctors, teachers, and ministers.

On the legit side, he owned a funeral home, was a member of the NAACP and Colored Masonic Lodge, and mediated disputes south of the tracks. He was an investor in the Phoenix Tribune, the Negro newspaper, until the Depression killed it. He was also a silent partner in the Rice Hotel and Swindall Tourist Home, which catered to Negro travelers who weren’t allowed to stay at white hotels.

His reputation for violence was enough that he rarely had to use it. The story where he staked a rival out in the desert atop a red-ant mound and covered him with molasses—it might have been true or not, but people believed it either way. And he was the richest colored man in town. I had a grudging respect for him because he was a veteran, too.

This was going to be the easiest hundred dollars I ever made, but I circled around.

“What was Zoogie to you?”

“He collected from my bookies.”

“Why use a white man for that?”

“Because the white man’s ice is always colder, Hammons. Zoogie was a mess, but when he got out of stir he came to me and I put him to work. I’m an equal opportunity employer. I figured my boys would show him more respect when he came calling, and they did. Send a Negro for that, and they’d know him, he might be hesitant. But send a white boy, and they’d cough it up.”

“Maybe one of them didn’t respect him.”

“No way. It’d never happen. Disrespecting him would mean disrespecting me.”

We fell silent. Somebody sure as hell had disrespected Zoogie.

Finally, I said, “I hear you’re Greenbaum’s man now.”

He tilted his head, amused.

“I’m nobody’s man but my own. I do have a partnership with Gus on gambling. It’s a new world, Hammons. The Chicago Outfit is losing out with Prohibition going away and Capone in the pen in Atlanta. He has the clap, you know. Anyway, the profits are going to be in consolidating gambling nationwide through the wire service. They gave me a nice cut.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “But why does Greenbaum give a damn about penny-ante bookies in Phoenix if he’s responsible for the whole Southwest?”

“He likes to keep a tight grip. Wouldn’t look good to the Outfit if his backyard was messy.”

Tight grip Gus.

“Well, I can solve your case easily. Zoogie’s throat was cut by Frenchy Navarre.”

Cleveland’s body tensed. “How do you know this?”

“I heard Frenchy bragging about it to Kemper Marley. Kemper blew a gasket. He’s afraid of Greenbaum but wants part of his action.”

Cleveland’s eyes narrowed. “‘Hell is empty and all the devils are here.’ Goddamn Frenchy. That shit Marley. He pays me to procure colored girls for that whorehouse he runs. You know, he’s got a wall peek there so he can take photos of what’s going on in each room and who’s doing it, from businessmen to politicians.”

“I guess that helped ensure he’d get the first liquor distributorship in the state.”

“Indeed.” His big head nodded. “What I don’t get is that Frenchy is Greenbaum’s bagman. Why would he kill Zoogie, who collects for me as part of my partnership with Gus?”

“To hear him explain it, he wanted to pin the murder on a colored man, make it seem like Greenbaum needed protection south of the tracks and Kemper could provide it, as long as he got a cut from the wire service.”

His bass voice went down an octave. “That’s crazy.”

“Nobody ever accused Navarre of being a genius.”

“I tell Gus this and Frenchy’s gonna end up in the riverbed with a dime dropped on him.”

“A police officer?” I said. “Killing a cop is dangerous business, breaks the code, brings down heat, and takes away a valuable asset. Even a stupid, double-dealing police detective is worth more alive than dead.”

Cleveland thought it over. “You’re probably right. But that doesn’t preclude a well-administered beating. And Frenchy’s promise that this murder goes unsolved, not pinned on an innocent Negro. That’s my code.”

I’d love to watch that. Cleveland reached across for the C-note but I pulled it away.

“You got your money’s worth.” I wrote out a receipt and handed it across.

“Heh.” He stood, the signal we were through.

I stayed seated. “What do you know about the girl who got killed and had her body dumped by the railroad tracks a month ago?”

He pulled a cigar from a humidor on his desk, cut it, and slowly lit it with a match. It was Cuban—quality will tell.

“I know that a Negro doesn’t want anything to do with a pretty, white, blond dead girl. We’ve never had that kind of lynching in Phoenix, and I don’t want to be the first one. Race relations are pretty good here, considering. But these are crazy times. Communists. People who think Mussolini is the way to go. Okies and hoboes coming through, gas moochers…”

I let him go on. He sounded like Marley. But he knew Carrie was pretty and blond with no prompting from me.

When he wound down, I said, “What about the white man having something to do with the pretty, white, blond dead girl? You hear things.”

The perfect smile reappeared. “It’s like back in the trenches, Hammons. A man hears lots of things. Funny, though, is he never hears the artillery shell that kills him. But I’m not worried. You’re the man who caught the University Park Strangler.”

Nineteen

At eleven thirty p.m. on Thursday, January 10, 1929, the westside patrol car driving on Van Buren was flagged down by a frantic man, who led the officers to his house at 324 N. Twelfth Avenue. His daughter was dead, murdered. The blue light and horn sounded at headquarters, and more officers headed that way. I was the sole night detective and arrived a little before midnight. It was cold out, and even most speakeasies were closed.

Edna Sawyer was seventeen years old, pretty with flame-red hair. She had been raped and strangled in her bed. Her periwinkle- blue flannel nightgown was pulled all the way