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

me. I might have been able to put them all down, but who knows? I slid the guns into my waistband and the knife and knucks in my pocket.

“Keep your damned hands up and faces forward,” I commanded. “At this range, I’ll blow your guts all over the pavement.” That was true, but I took two steps back. I didn’t want one of these toughs to get the idea he could make a clever move behind him and disarm me.

I said, “Guess what, smart guys. You assaulted a police officer. You’re going to Florence for a nice, long bit.”

Frenchy touched my elbow. “Let ’em go, Geno. It’s a long story, but I don’t want ’em arrested.”

I whispered out of the side of my mouth, “Frenchy, these guys almost killed you.”

“I know,” he wheezed. “But let ’em go. I’ll explain later.”

That would be interesting to hear, but I already knew the truth. This was payback from Greenbaum for Zoogie Boogie, or maybe from Cyrus Cleveland, and I couldn’t say I was sorry he was getting it.

I holstered my pistol and ordered them to turn around. “Get lost.”

“What about my gun?” This came from the first one, who was about my height, swarthy complexion, eyes that showed an intellect somewhere around that of a mule.

I patted his cheek. “You’re lucky to not be going to jail, sweetheart. Don’t push it.”

They walked east on Madison, looking back. I expected the worst, that they would make a run at me, but soon all four were gone. Frenchy was bent over, spitting up more blood.

“I need a drink,” he said. “I need to get my car…” He collapsed again, and I lifted him upright, grabbing his mangled fedora.

“First you’re going to the hospital. No argument.”

I folded him into the Ford and drove to St. Joseph’s at Fourth and Polk streets, the closest hospital. Before they ushered me into the waiting area, I assessed his injuries: One eye already turning purple, scrapes on his face, nasty hit to the jaw, bruised ribs. He gave me his badge, gun, sap, handcuffs, and wallet. I explained that he was a police officer.

“Geno.” He grabbed my sleeve. “Please keep this between us. If McGrath finds out, I’ll be writing parking tickets and directing traffic in uniform for the rest of my career.”

Considering this was the man who slit Zoogie Boogie’s throat, I felt surprisingly compassionate. “It stays between us,” I said. “But who were those goons?”

“Gambling debt…”

And a nun pushed me out of the room.

While the doctors were working on Frenchy, I went outside for a cigarette and unburdened my confiscated weapons into the car. Bing Crosby was singing “Shadow Waltz” from a phonograph playing in a house across the street. Victoria would be well on her way to Yuma by now, with a morning arrival in Los Angeles. I wish I’d offered to go with her.

Hefting Frenchy’s blackjack, I wondered if it was what killed Carrie. I dug through his wallet. He was carrying two C-notes in addition to ones and fives. Not bad for an honest public servant—or somebody who got busted up over unpaid gambling debts. Among notes and cards, I found one from Summer Tours. On the back side, Carrie’s handwriting said, “Leonce, Big Cat scares me. C.”

I slid it back into place. Frenchy was definitely not Big Cat. I wondered again who was.

Two hours later, Frenchy was as patched up as possible. They wanted to admit him for fear of internal bleeding, but he was having none of that. He had three broken ribs, had lost two teeth, and came close to having a fractured cheek and ruptured spleen. He was staggering from a dose of morphine but still winced in pain as I slid his holster and other cop gear back on and put him in the passenger seat for the ride home.

“What the hell am I going to tell my wife?” he slurred as we arrived.

“Lie well. You’re a cop and got in a fight. Say you look a lot better than the toughs you took down tonight and threw in jail.”

He started to laugh but this turned into a moan from his broken ribs as he wrapped his arms around his battered middle.

“You ever been in love, Geno?”

I nodded.

“I mean really in love,” he said. “I had what I thought was a tumble with this young girl. But she caught me like a fish on a hook. ’Course my wife didn’t know. Anyway, she made me feel like I was seventeen again, made me forget all the dirty stuff that comes with the job. God, I miss her.”

I waited and calculated, then decided to risk it. “What was her name?”

“Carrie.” Tears started down his bruised cheeks. Electricity ran up my spine.

“What happened to her?”

“She died. A tragedy.”

“What happened?”

Now he was visibly sobbing. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Wish I did. Feel like it’s left me at the end of a long, dark cave with no way out…”

I waited for more, but he stopped himself. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to confess to killing Carrie or if he was genuinely innocent.

“What do you do for fun, Frenchy? To relax? You need to take a few days off after what happened. Get your story straight for McGrath and stick to it. Hoodlum ambushed you, you fought, he ran, and you lost him. He’ll give you a few days.”

“What if he kicks me off the Hat Squad, Geno? We’re supposed to be tough.”

“Nobody doubts your courage, Frenchy. You’re safe.”

He furrowed his brow, thinking it through. “I guess I could take time off and cook. Family likes my steaks, my gumbo.”

Maybe the steaks explained his purchases at the restaurant supply store. Nothing could explain him slitting the throat of an innocent man. Despite this, I made myself get out and help him from the car to the driveway.

“You gotta get my car…”

“It can wait. You’re in no condition to drive. You can barely walk.”

“No! Please. Please get it, Geno. It’s a ’32 Chevy,