The Woman In Blue (Nick O'Brien Case Files)

  Nick O’Brien Case Files:

  The Woman In Blue

  by

  David G. Johnson

  Nick O’Brien Case Files: The Woman In Blue copyright 2015 by Faith X Fiction Press and David G. Johnson, all rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the author. Exception is made for short excerpts used in reviews.

  This story is a work of fiction. While some characters and places in this work are based on actual historical figures, and some events are actual historical events, the details of persons and events directly related to the main story itself are purely fictional. Any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead, beyond what is established history, is coincidental.

  Cover design courtesy of Mary C. Findley

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – Brother, Where Art Thou?

  Chapter Two – A Family Affair

  Chapter Three – Bowery Girl

  Chapter Four – The Cotton Club

  Chapter Five – Family Problems

  Chapter Six – Stormy Weather

  Chapter Seven – Boston Heavy

  Chapter Eight – Penny LeBeaux

  Chapter Nine – An Ultimatum

  Chapter Ten – Scene of the Crime

  Chapter Eleven – Bullet Ballet

  Chapter Twelve – Midnight Visit

  Chapter Thirteen- Back to the Bowery

  Chapter Fourteen – Boston Bound

  Chapter Fifteen – Letter from the Grave

  Chapter Sixteen – Trouble in the Bowery

  Chapter Seventeen – Mysterious Errands

  Chapter Eighteen – The Best-Laid Plans

  Chapter Nineteen – Lupo On The Loose

  Chapter Twenty – Back to Boston

  Chapter Twenty-one – Time for Answers

  Chapter Twenty-two – Loose Lips

  Chapter Twenty-three – The Setup

  Chapter Twenty-four – Showdown

  Chapter Twenty-five – Wrapup

  Glossary – Slang of the 1930’s

  Afterword

  Chapter One – Brother, Where Art Thou?

  It’s raining again, typical for April. I hate the rain. For all the water God dumps on the Big Apple, the filth of crime and corruption never washes off. Short of another Noah’s flood, the grime of this city will never come clean.

  I sit in my darkened office, cigarette lit, listening to the ceaseless patter of rain against the windowsill. My crusade against the dark underbelly of this cesspool of a city ain’t making any more of a dent in the scum than the raindrops bombarding the street below.

  It wasn’t always this way. Just like our new president, Roosevelt, I shot out of the gate full of ideas about how I was going to set things right. Without the hindrance of stoolies in the squad room and bought-off bosses upstairs, this ex-copper was going to accomplish as a private eye what I couldn’t swing wearing a blue uniform: justice.

  In the three years since I opened the doors of this agency, what a swell lot of good I have done. A few well-kept skirts hire me to follow their no-good husbands. Either these pillars of virtue squirreled enough dough away before the Great Depression to keep a mistress or they are part of some bootleg operation. Bootleggers and gangsters are the only elements of this country not in the toilet. Beyond that, I’ve taken a few consulting cases with my old precinct, thrown to me out of pity or to keep me away from the real action. Wouldn’t want the private eye causing any grief for those officials in bed with the mob.

  As I am wallowing in my self-pity and trying to figure out how things got so bent, into my office walks the most gorgeous dish I’ve ever laid eyes on. She is beautiful, but not in that bouncy, pin-up sort of way. This gal has a fierce beauty about her, slim and sleek, with a depth to those piercing blue peepers that a man can drown in. Raven hair is tucked neatly below a proper lady’s hat, and her ruby lipstick rests somewhere between high society and relaxed morality. Oh, and that dress! That blue satin dress clings to her curves, leaving little to the imagination, with a high collar and just enough frills and lace to make sure everyone knows it’s supposed to be classy. If she is looking for someone to catch her husband with another broad, I am about to be hired to find the dumbest galoot on the planet.

  “Are you Nick O’Brien, Private InvestigatorHer voice is as sultry and enticing as her form.

  “That’s what it says on the door, doll. What can I do for you?”

  She sits down in the chair in front of my desk. As she crosses her perfect gams in ladylike fashion in front of me, I can only curse myself for sitting and brooding with the lights off. Only a glimmer of cloud-shrouded sunlight peeps through the window to illuminate this vision of beauty. After settling herself, she continues.

  “My brother is missing. I have heard you are an honest man and an excellent detective. I am hoping you can help me find him.”

  I offer her a cigarette across the desk, which she declines with an uplifted hand.

  “Well, before we get into details,” I answer, “you need to understand I don’t work cheap.”

  That’s a laugh.

  I’ll take work wherever I find it and charge what I feel the client can fairly pay. No harm in testing the waters, though. Besides, I like setting expectations up front, to avoid any squalling when it comes time to pay the bill. Given the quality of that fur wrapped around her neck and the sparkles on her hands, this dame ain’t hurting for scratch. So, whatever she wants, which for now includes my reputation for dealing square, it ain’t going to be on the cheap.

  “That won’t be a problem. My father never trusted banks or paper money. He put away precious metals and gemstones for years before the Stock Exchange crash. Father passed away just before the crash and since then my brother and I have been living off his wise investments. Father used to tell us, ‘no matter which way the paper blows, silver, gold, and stones will always have value’. His wisdom saved us.”

  “All right then.” That little story sounds a bit too rehearsed. I’d better listen close to what she’s got to say. Chances are I’m going to end up digging for the pieces she leaves out. “How can I help you Miss…”

  “Dillon, Marjorie Dillon. Mr. O’Brien…”

  “Nick, please. I never cared much for formalities. It creates distance and reasons to hide things. I’d rather be a friend, so you can rest easy and tell me everything.”

  “Oh,” she says, somewhat distracted, “Then you must call me Marjorie. Anyway, Nick, my brother’s gone missing and I would like to hire you to find him.”

  “So, Miss Dillon, why not just go to the police and file a report? Seems a bunch of flatfoots searching for your brother would cover a lot more ground than a lone gumshoe.”

  “Mr… um, Nick, I’ve been to the police. They weren’t very helpful.”

  Surprise, surprise.

  “Sometimes they aren’t. What’d they tell you?”

  “They said he’s a grown man and has probably gone off on his own somewhere. Tommy has not been gone long enough to be considered missing, either. The police told me not to worry, that I would hear from him soon, but I know my brother. This is not at all like him, not at all. I fear something terrible has happened. Oh, won’t you please help me find him?”

  I’ve been at this long enough to realize she ain’t giving me the straight skinny, not all of it leastways. That’s nothing new. Everyone lies. Getting lied to is part of the job. Maybe my instincts are off this time, but I ain’t betting heavy
on it. Let’s see if I can dredge out what is really on the table before this high-dollar doll drags me into something that gets me killed.

  “Yeah, I’ll help you, Marjorie. Now tell me more about your brother. When did he go missing, and what was he up to just before he disappeared?”

  She twitches nervously, like someone with more of a story to tell than she plans on telling. After fiddling with her fingers for a moment, she apparently finds whatever tale she intends to spin and looks me in the eye.

  “Tommy called me in Boston and asked me to come into New York to meet him. We planned to meet last night at my hotel for a late dinner. Tommy is always punctual, and if anything kept him from coming, he would have left me a message. I have no idea where to reach him, and fear something dreadful has happened. I came all the way to the city just to meet with him, so he wouldn’t miss our dinner without calling unless it was something serious.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, Marjorie, I can understand why the police aren’t ready to jump just yet. It has not even been a day. Is there good reason to think Tommy might be in trouble instead of just busy with unexpected business?”

  “The truth is, Nick, Tommy had a knack for getting into trouble. He has been in with dangerous people before, and I fear he may have gotten himself crossways with unsavory characters again.”

  There’s the rub.

  Brother is a hood or a gunsel and she’s wanting me to find out who he crossed up and where they have him stashed. Well, at least it ain’t another crooked husband off dizzy with a dame.

  I should be careful what I wish for next time.

  “Okay, Marjorie, calm down. Where was Tommy staying in the city?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Tommy moves around a lot, and I only see him a few times a year. He called me and asked me to get a room at the New Yorker and that we would meet there.”

  Figures.

  “Okay, let me make a quick call and get the ball rolling. My fee is twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses, but I’m sure to find your dear brother that’s a steal, right?”

  She nods and pulls a C-note out of her handbag, handing it across the desk. Ain’t seen a bill that big since the depression started. This dame must be more loaded than I thought.

  “This should get you started Mr…, Nick. Let me know when this runs out.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.” I pick up the blower and ring in the DA’s office. “Hello, I want to talk to ADA O’Brien. Yeah, I’ll hold. Hey, Jimmy, it’s Nick. Listen, I need a favor. Can you have your paper hounds sniff around for a jacket on a Tommy Dillon?” She taps me on the arm across the desk.

  “Oh, Nick,” she whispers, “I’m sorry, that would be Tommy DeLanz.”

  A brother with a different name. Yep, it’s seafood night at the Nicky-O diner. Will have to sniff that one out later.

  “Sorry, Jimmy, make that Tommy DeLanz. Yeah, I appreciate it. Listen, why don’t we meet at McSorley’s for lunch and you can share what you find. Great, I’ll see you, say, twelve-thirty? Fine. Bye.”

  Now to sort out the branches of this family tree.

  “Marjorie, you’re a Dillon with a brother DeLanz. Is Dillon your married name?”

  “Oh, no, Nick, I’m quite single.” She bats those baby blues like that is going to make the question go away.

  It won’t.

  “Sounds like a real interesting family. Care to fill me in?”

  “It is rather simple. Father adopted Tommy. He always wanted a son and when my mother died, well… Tommy’s father was missing and when his mother died, dad took him in. The city made it official and Tommy came to live with us.”

  Neat. Too neat.

  That’s the press release version anyways, but it’ll have to do for now. I nod convincingly and give her the best ‘I believe you’ look I can muster.

  “Okay, Marjorie, why don’t you go rest and let me get started on what I can find. How can I reach you when I have news?”

  “I’m staying at the New Yorker Hotel, room 2302. You can reach me there.”

  “Fair enough. Don’t worry your pretty little head, I’m sure Tommy will turn up.”

  Probably in a mobster’s garden, but then I’m a pessimist.

  “Thank you, Nick. I hope you are right.”

  That slinky, form-fitting blue satin dress walks out of sight. Before all this is over, I might grow to like Miss Marjorie Dillon, providing she doesn’t get me killed. Having a tomato that comes with her own cabbage wouldn’t be such a bad deal, especially not a looker like Marjorie.

  Lord willing, she really is just an upstanding sister looking out for a no-account, adopted brother. Likely as not, Jimmy is going to dig up a file on DeLanz thick enough to be a doorstop, and he’s going to wind up crossways with one of the families. If that’s the case, we won’t find enough of Tommy to fill Marjorie’s purse.

  There is nothing like the hustle and bustle of McSorley’s. Prohibition or no, this place stands on its motto, Good ale, raw onions, and no ladies. Now, since Roosevelt signed Cullen-Harrison last month, McSorley’s has been legally selling beer for the first time in thirteen years. This place was a neighborhood staple before prohibition, and after that, not much changed.

  The alcohol content of their ale went down and the prices went up, but beyond that, McSorley’s kept on going with business as usual; an above-ground speakeasy. People packed this place even with the higher prices, and nobody went home sore about paying them. With half the judges and cops in Greenwich Village in here on any given day, it’s no wonder McSorley’s “Near Beer” kept flowing, Eighteenth Amendment or no. Even though it is now legal to sell the real stuff, the McSorley’s tradition of “Near Beer” is so ingrained, everyone keeps calling even the real stuff by that prohibition name.

  Ah, there’s Jimmy, sitting and sipping a soda, always the straight arrow.

  “Why do you agree to meet at McSorley’s if all you ever drink is club soda?”

  “There’s a law, Nicky. Besides, how would it look for an assistant district attorney to come back from lunch reeling on a bender?”

  Casey Flannigan ambles over to the table in his white apron and spouts off in his Irish brogue.

  “Nicky O, well, save my soul. If it ain’t the war hero hisself. What’ll it be, Nicky? And your money ain’t no good here, boyo.”

  “Near Beer, Casey, thanks. And a Reuben on pumpernickel.”

  “You got it, Nicky O. Nothin’s too good for an Irish hero.”

  I wish Casey would stop with that war hero stuff, but the upside is I’ve never bought a drink in McSorley’s when Casey was working. Past is past, and the war’s been over for years. Besides, there are no heroes in war. After some typical ‘how’ve you been’ small talk, it is time to get down to business.

  “So, Jimmy, you find anything on Tommy DeLanz?”

  With that disapproving shake of his head, I know Jimmy is about to give me an earful. Jimmy waits to answer as Casey shows up with my lunch, a pat on the shoulder, and a cold mug of Near Beer. After Casey totters off to see to other customers, Jimmy opens up with both barrels.

  “Nicky, what have you gotten into this time? This guy is small time, but he is definitely connected.”

  “I figured as much. What’s it look like?”

  “About a dozen arrests on theft and burglary, but nothing stuck. He’s not a bank guy. He likes fenceable stuff, art, jewels, you know? He has an ex-girlfriend in the Bowery, Gabriella Rosario. Detectives questioned her after a few of the jobs, but she didn’t like Tommy’s activities, and wasn’t quiet about it. Last entry for her was a couple years ago. She is clean, and his most recent collar was last year for a heist near the upper west side. No witnesses, not enough evidence to take to trial. He walked. Since then, nothing.”

  “So he’s a local? Interesting.”

  “Was he not supposed to be?”

  “My client, his sister, according to her story, is down from Boston. I guess I figured they both were. When was Tommy first snagged?” Jimmy shuffles thr
ough the file.

  “Hmm, looks like seven years ago. Nothing in the jacket before that. Look, Nicky, this guy has all the look of a pair of sticky fingers attached to the families. You be careful on this one, okay?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, I’ll watch my six. Two years in the sky and the kraut flyers couldn’t down me. I’m not worried about a two-bit sneak finishing the job.”

  “You are not indestructible, Nicky.”

  “You sure about that? Anyway, it sounds like my client may have a bit more skinny than she’s let slip so far. I need to have a deeper chat and unwind a few things. So any address for Tommy in the file?”

  “Hmm, looks like he jumps around a lot. Last address is a low-end tenement up in Queens.”

  I take down the address, finish my sandwich and Near Beer and stand up to leave.

  “Hey, Nicky, you chipping in for lunch?”

  “Nah. Casey never charges for my drinks, and I figure my big-shot brother can put my sandwich on the city’s bill. Tell them you had lunch with a snitch or something.” Jimmy flashes that disapproving frown again.

  “I can’t do that, Nick.”

  “Yeah, well being too straight an arrow comes at a price, don’t it, Jimmy?”

  I flash him my best taunting grin on my way out the door. He’ll pay it out of his pocket rather than fudge even a little. I won’t cheat an honest person, but this city has more mafia money flowing into it than tax dollars. If Jimmy wants to keep the mob money in his bosses’ pockets, that’s his business. He’s a big boy and makes enough to cover it.

  Now, on to the business at hand. Time to pull on a few strands of Miss Dillon’s web and try to figure out how deep I have stepped in it this time. Jimmy calls me a cynic, but after a world war and twelve years on a police force filled with crooked cops and crookeder politicians, I have good reason to be.

  Marjorie knows more than she’s saying. This means trouble, and more often than not it’s the kind of trouble that gets nosy detectives killed, in or out of uniform. Her looks would hypnotize most guys, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t swayed by them, but Nick O’Brien didn’t survive the skies over France and Germany getting lulled to sleep by pretty scenery. I want to believe she is what she says, but something in my gut tells me I’m swimming with alligators on this one.