Chesty's and Six Red Poppies

When I walked through the door of Chesty's at nine that night I was pissed off, had a hell of headache, was dead tired, and I needed a drink. It was all because of Alonzo Merini.

Alonzo Merini had been arrested and charged with theft after he'd asked to see an engagement ring in a pawnshop. After he'd looked at that ring, he told the owner of the pawnshop he'd like to see another ring. When the pawnshop owner bent down to get it from the case, Alonzo slipped the first ring into his pants pocket.

The pawnshop owner started to hand Alonzo the second ring, but stopped and asked him where the first ring was. Alonzo said he'd put it on the counter and the pawnshop owner must have knocked it off behind the counter. When the pawnshop owner looked down, Alonzo ran for the door.

He'd probably have made it if another customer hadn't been coming through the door at the same time. Since the door opened into the pawnshop, Alonzo ran into the door as it swung open and it knocked him cold. When he woke up, he was in handcuffs and the pawnshop owner was in the process of having Alonzo arrested for theft.

When Alonzo went before a judge, he told the judge he must have forgotten about putting the ring in his pocket. The judge didn't believe him, so he set a trial date and then set Alonzo's bail at a thousand bucks. Alonzo called Benny's Bail Bonds, and Benny bailed him out.

Alonzo apparently had a really shitty memory, because he also forgot about his trial date. Benny wasn't about to lose a grand, so he hired me to find Alonzo and take him back to jail.

I'd found Alonzo Merini shacked up with his girlfriend in an apartment downtown. Alonzo knew he was dead meat as soon as he opened the door, but he wasn't about to give up.

He started to run for the window and the fire escape so I tackled his ass. I had him on the floor and was putting my cuffs on him when his bitch girlfriend hit me in the head with a metal wastebasket. It didn't hurt all that much but it pissed me off because all the used rubbers in that wastebasket came out and landed on my neck and shoulders. It looked like Alonzo had fucked his girlfriend a bunch of times and he didn't tie the rubbers shut when he took them off. Those rubbers stunk like a two-bit whore's cunt and oozed Alonzo's cum all over me.

She hit me four more times before I got pissed and punched her in the gut. She folded up like a wet towel and started bawling her eyes out. I got my cuffs on Alonzo and yanked him to his feet.

"Say goodbye to your girlfriend, Alonzo. You got a date with Jerome down at central. Brought him in yesterday and Jerome's a little different. He told me he likes Italian men 'cause they got tight assholes. I'm told he doesn't even spit on his cock first. He expects his boyfriends to suck it until it's wet enough."

I took Alonzo down to Central Booking and after they gave me a receipt, I went to Benny's Bail Bonds to collect my money. Tony took one look at me and pinched his nose.

"Matt, you stink like a whorehouse at two in the morning."

"I know. Just give me my fucking money and you won't have to smell me anymore."

I walked away from Benny's two hundred richer and decided I needed some medicine for the headache Alonzo's girlfriend had given me. I went back to my apartment, took a shower, and changed clothes. Then, I walked the four blocks down to Chesty's.

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Chesty's Bar is a strip club run by Randall Gomolka, though he goes by Randy. I knew him from our time in the US Army. We were both drafted in Chicago, went through training together, and ended up in the 4th Infantry clawing our way into France via Utah Beach.

Randy was an all right guy and having him for a buddy saved my ass a couple times. The only thing a little shady about Randy was his side hustles. Now, don't get me wrong. When the bullets started flying, Randy was all balls and business and a good man to have beside me. It was when we got a break from the front lines once in a while that he sort of slipped. I thought what he did was great. The US Army probably wouldn't have thought so.

See, when the US Army went through some place, the goal was to blow shit up and kill German soldiers. As a result, there were a lot of farmhouses and towns in France and Germany that were a lot worse for the wear after the 4th moved on.

The people who lived in those towns and farmhouses often didn't have any place to live and not much to eat until the rest of the Army caught up with us. That's where one of Randy's side hustles came into play.

The truck drivers who hauled our supplies and the cooks and mechanics and doctors who were behind our lines and made life almost bearable usually never saw any real combat. That's not to say they weren't important. Without them, the lives of a bunch of combat troops would have been a lot more miserable than it already was. More of us probably wouldn't have come back home if they hadn't been there.

A few of those truck drivers and cooks and mechanics and doctors wanted war souvenirs, but they were never close enough to the action to get many. By the time they rolled in and set up, all the bodies were in the ground and all the weapons had been collected. Randy saw the opportunity and took advantage of it.

When the smoke cleared and the shooting stopped, Randy would take a few buttons, belt buckles, and about anything else that he could quickly get off a dead German and would fit in his jacket and pants pockets. He'd save them until we were relieved for a couple days, and then use them to trade with the support troops.

Mostly he traded for food. A German Army field uniform button was worth one unit of C-Rations. A belt buckle was worth a number ten can of hot dogs. He rarely found any, but an officer's shoulder rank insignia was worth enough canned meat and vegetables to feed three people for a couple days. He found one dead SS guy with a silver skull on his cap and that silver skull got him a case of canned meat, a case of canned vegetables, and ten pounds of flour. I know this because I helped Randy collect those buttons, belt buckles, and other stuff.

Randy liked his women, but only the women who he knew were whores. There were always some around and it was obvious that they weren't amateurs. They seemed to show up as soon as our cooks set up a kitchen and the medics set up an aide station. Randy would pay them for their time with the C-rations. The going rate was one C-ration for a blowjob or a handjob, and three for an actual fuck.

When we had time, meaning after we'd found a whore or three to ease our battle stress, Randy and I would go looking for and find some woman with a couple kids, or maybe a couple old people. Randy would give them what food we had. The kids really liked the chocolate candy. A lot of times the mother or the wife of the older couple would hint that she'd repay us with sex, but we always said no. We figured they'd already been through enough.

Cutting the buttons and belt buckle off some dead German soldier might seem pretty fucking morbid to some and illegal to others. All I can say to that is when you're nineteen, have seen as much as we saw, and know today might be the last day of your life, you tend to not worry much about anything except keeping your ass from getting shot off. You don't even think about what might happen in the future. You don't have time to think about anything except what's happening all around you. Combat pretty much makes you immune to dead people too unless they're wearing the same uniform you are.

Like I said, Randy liked the whores, but he was smart about it, at least smart enough to use the six rubbers a month the Army issued us. Six a month wasn't enough for him if we got a break from fighting and were close to a town, but he had another side hustle to get more.

It didn't take Randy long to figure out the Catholic Chaplain for our unit didn't have any use for the rubbers he was issued. The Chaplain did smoke cigarettes though. Randy didn't smoke so he traded the cigarettes in his C-rations to the Chaplain for rubbers, one pack of five cigarettes for one rubber. He'd save them up for the next time we got a break behind the lines.

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When I got drafted, there were any number of young girls who thought it was their patriotic duty to give a soldier going off to war something to remember. I figured they were also looking for a husband because there were a lot of wartime marriages just before the guy shipped out. I wasn't ready to make that kind of commitment, so I let them feel patriotic by telling them I was already married.

I did break that rule one time while I was waiting to be shipped out to England. There was one woman I knew who had lost her husband in Tunisia. She didn't seem too broken up about it, but then, she'd only known him for a month before they got married and he shipped out. She wanted some company. I didn't know the company she wanted was a man with a stiff cock, but I was young and horny. She fucked me three times before I had to leave her. She taught me a lot in the process too.

Once we landed in England, those same girls were out there looking for an American GI. I didn't know anything about any of them, and I wasn't ready to take one back to the States assuming I made it through the war. I settled for hand jobs in England and through France and Germany whenever Randy and I got a couple days away from the front lines.

Randy seemed to not care how old the broad was as long as she was over twenty and had tits and a cunt. He once told me the best he'd had was a French whore in Cherbourg who was about fifty. I tended to like women a little older than my nineteen years. I figured they'd know more. I figured women older than forty might have forgotten some of what they knew.

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When the Germans surrendered and the Army got done figuring out when and how to get us back to the States, we came back home on a ship that was crowded and stunk like sweaty men. We didn't mind. We were going home.

The whole goddamned time, Randy talked my fucking ass off about how he was going to open a strip joint and make a shit pot of money. He said he knew he'd probably have some whores doing business there but he wasn't going to mess with any whores in Chicago.

"I'll have to deal with the Mob to run a club, but that's just a normal business expense in Chicago. You just hire who they tell you to hire and buy from the right people and they leave you alone. You make up the added cost in drink prices like everybody else does.

"The whores are a different story. They work for pimps who are trying to get a connection in the Mob. They're a crazy bunch of fuckers and they're always looking to show the Mob bosses how tough they are so they'll get noticed. You fuck over some pimp's whore and you wind up with busted kneecaps or worse.

"Me, I'm gonna find me a nice Polish girl, get married, and have a bunch of kids."

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I figured it was just talk, but turns out, he was serious. He used all his back pay and combat pay to put a down payment on a little bar on South Wabash, put in a little stage, and hire a small band. In a month, Chesty's Bar opened.

Randy named it Chesty's for a stripper who called herself Chesty Morgan we'd seen in New York while we were waiting on a train to take us back to Chicago. She had really long tits and she did this thing where she'd tuck one into each armpit so they stuck out her back instead of her chest and her nipples were facing backwards. They also hung down a bunch when they were in the right place so she didn't do much for me, but Randy loved her.

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I'd stayed in touch while I was figuring out what I was going to do. I'd go to Chesty's on a Saturday night and have a couple drinks with Randy while we talked about what we'd done in the war.

Figuring out what I was going to do took a while. After the war people had money but there wasn't much to buy because all the factories had been making war goods. When the GIs came home, the wives who'd been working those war jobs left so when the factories started making stuff for normal people, there were a lot of factory jobs available.

I couldn't see myself standing in front of some machine making screws or car fenders for forty hours a week. I also couldn't see myself sitting in some fucking office with a bunch of 4-Fs and keeping books or some other bullshit. I'd gotten sort of addicted to action.

One of my thoughts was that I'd join the Chicago PD. Judging by what the newspapers printed, there wasn't much boring about their jobs. There was always an article or two about how they'd chased down some guy who killed another guy or some guy who robbed a liquor store or some guy they'd shot when he started shooting at them.

After thinking some more, I realized there were three things wrong with that choice.

The first was that I'd spent a lot of years taking orders from some dumb-fuck second lieutenant who didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground about combat. The only thing good about most of them was their fucking stupidity got them killed or wounded on a regular basis. I figured being a cop would be about the same. I'd be taking orders from some sergeant who got where he was because of who he knew.

The second was the money. I'd spent the last few years risking my life for sixty bucks a month plus another ten once I earned my Combat Infantry Badge. As a cop, I'd earn around three-eighty, but I'd have to pay rent and buy my own food and clothes and the risk of losing my life would still be there.

The third was what Randy told me.

"Matt, cops don't make shit unless they get in bed with the Mob, and you don't wanna fuck with those people. They'll pay you as long as you do what they tell you to do. As soon as you say no, you'll end up in Lake Michigan wearing concrete shoes."

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I met Nancy one Tuesday afternoon about four when I walked into Chesty's. Randy was busy doing something, so he wasn't sitting at his table where I'd normally have gone to sit. I looked around and there wasn't a soul in the place except for three older guys looking up at the girl on the stage. I wasn't interested in the girl, so I took a table at the other end of the bar.

This nice blonde walked up, said her name was Nancy, and asked what I wanted.

She was dressed to get tips, and by that I mean her top fit tight enough and her bra was loose enough her tits swayed when she walked. She was wearing a skirt that wasn't real tight except for around her waist and over her ass and that ass was a really, really nice ass. I didn't see her legs and heels until she walked away to get my double bourbon neat, but they were pretty great too.

When she brought my drink, she smiled.

"That'll be seventy-five cents please."

I handed her a buck and told her to keep the change. She smiled again and thanked me and then walked back to the bar.

In an hour, I'd finished my drink and was feeling pretty good. When I put the empty glass down, Nancy walked up and asked if I wanted another.

Well, ordinarily, I'd have said no and then left, but there was something about her smile that made me say I'd like another double.

That second double hit me about half way through, and I had four blocks to walk to get back to my apartment. I pushed my chair back and was starting to stand when Nancy walked up.

"Leaving so soon? You still have half a drink left."

I nodded.

"Yeah. I need to get home. If you see Randy, tell him I was here and I'll catch him on Saturday."

Nancy said she would. I walked the four blocks back to my apartment to get some food in me.

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That Saturday, I asked Randy about Nancy.

He grinned and said I didn't have a chance, and then told me what he knew about her.

Nancy was a really nice blonde that Randy hired to wait tables. She wasn't gorgeous like the strippers who stood on Randy's stage and bumped and ground their asses and wobbled their tits to the music. Now that I think about them, most of those strippers weren't all that gorgeous either. They just seemed that way after a few drinks.

No, Nancy was just an average, but pretty woman about twenty-four or so, with nice tits and a nice ass. Once I'd met her, she also seemed like she'd be fun.

Anyway, Randy told me that Nancy had married this guy a week before he shipped out to England in '43. She'd worked at Woolworth's and waited on the guy to come back. She got a letter from him just before he came home, and in the letter he said the Army was sending him to Ft. Leonard Wood and it would be better if she stayed in Chicago until they discharged him.

When one of his buddies came back to Chicago and looked up Nancy to say hello, she found out that the Army was keeping him in the base hospital at Ft. Leonard Wood until he was cured of the syphilis he'd caught from a whore in Paris.

The buddy thought she already knew and Nancy didn't tell him she didn't. She just had a cup of coffee with him and when he left, she went to a lawyer. The lawyer said that if her husband had contracted syphilis while he was in Europe and she was in Chicago, that was proof of infidelity and was enough for her to divorce the asshole, and she did.

While her husband was still in the Army, Nancy was receiving fifty dollars a month because of the Servicemen's Dependents Allowances Act. With that and what she'd earned at Woolworth's she'd been able to rent a cheap apartment and be able to live a relatively comfortable life.

The divorce meant she lost the fifty a month, so she applied for a waitress job at Chesty's. Randy said he wasn't paying her any more than she'd made at Woolworth's but she was raking in about twenty every night in tips. She moved to a better apartment and started buying some new clothes.

After I heard all that, I asked Randy why he thought I didn't have a chance.

"Randy, I'm not really interested in Nancy, but why wouldn't she be looking for another husband? Most women are."

Randy grinned.

"Better men that you have tried, me included, but she always turns them down. Doesn't stop them from tipping her though.

"I don't know for sure, but after what her husband did, I don't think she's looking for another man. Another woman maybe. She seems to spend a lot of time talking to a couple of my strippers, and I know those two girls are lezzies. Caught them kissing backstage a couple times."

I chuckled.

"Two of your strippers are lesbians?"

Randy sipped his vodka collins and then explained.

"I asked both of them about that. What they said was they could make better money stripping than working as store clerks and it didn't bother them if guys thought they were hot because they knew they were. They just didn't want some guy fucking them."

I shook my head.

"You know that and you keep them stripping for you?"

"Yeah. I never fuck my strippers anyway and they're bringing in a lot of business. I don't really give a rat's ass if they want to lick each other's cunts."

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The next Monday I went over the classified ads in the Chicago Tribune trying to find a job that wouldn't drive me crazy out of boredom. There weren't many, and what there were, sounded like they'd be boring as hell after a couple weeks. I mean, how exciting can it be to drive a delivery truck around Chicago? You'd wait at some loading dock until you were loaded up, drive somewhere and then wait some more at another loading dock while some guys unloaded your truck. I'd also be giving some of my pay to the Teamster's Union and Randy had told me that the Teamster's Union was really just another Mob hustle.

"Some day, the dispatcher will tell you to go to a certain warehouse and then go somewhere else and take a break for a couple hours. If you do, there'll be an envelope on the seat of your truck when you come back, and in that envelope will be maybe a hundred or so. You'll get told to do that again, and if you say you won't, they probably won't kill you, but after your broken legs heal up, you'll never get another driving job in Chicago again."

Well, I didn't need any of that shit. I'd had enough of people telling me where to go and what to do. The only way I could see out of that was to start my own business. I just didn't know what that business was going to be until that Tuesday afternoon.

I was still unemployed, so I dropped by Chesty's for a drink. Like the Tuesday before, the bar was basically empty. Nancy walked up to my table and smiled.

"Randy's off to Cleveland looking for new girls. The guys get kind of tired of seeing the same girls every night. What can I get you?"

When she brought my double bourbon neat, I asked her if she knew of any kind of job in Chicago where people wouldn't boss me around.

She frowned.

"No, not really. Everybody has a boss, well except for people like lawyers and doctors."

"That's what I'm finding out. I think I need to start a business so I'll be my own boss. I just haven't figured out what kind of business that needs to be."

Nancy pulled out a chair and sat down across from me.

"I might know of one. Denise... that's her up on the stage... Denise used to be married but she found out her husband had a mistress and divorced him for infidelity. The way she found out was she hired a private detective. He followed her husband around until he caught him with his mistress.

"She told me the private investigator worked on his own and he was cheaper that way. It still cost her a lot of money, but at least she's not married to the jerk anymore."

I hadn't thought about that. I really didn't know private investigators even existed because I'd never known anybody who'd used one.

"So what did this private investigator do to find out?"

"Well, he followed Denise's husband when he was supposedly going to his job at the stamping plant. She said he was supposed to work from seven in the morning until three in the afternoon, but he usually didn't get home until seven or eight. He told her they were working overtime because they had so much business. She believed him at first, but got suspicious when they didn't seem to have any more money.

"What the private investigator found out is that Denise's husband was stopping off at the apartment of one of the secretaries at the stamping plant. He'd stay there for two or three hours and then come home to Denise. He got proof of what they were doing one Saturday when Denise's husband said he had to work overtime that Saturday.

"The private investigator followed Denise's husband to the secretary's apartment and waited. A few minutes later, they got into the husband's car and drove to Foster Beach. He took pictures of them on a blanket and the husband was kissing the secretary. He also took some pictures of the secretary with her hand down the husband's swim trunks.

"Denise took those pictures to a lawyer and the lawyer said they were grounds for divorce. She didn't get much out of her husband though because she just wanted him gone. That's why she's working here."

I smiled.

"Sounds like you and Denise are pretty good friends."

Nancy nodded.

"We are and Roberta is our friend too. Her story is about the same except her husband wasn't messing around on her. When he came home from the Marines, she just couldn't live with him. He always wanted to order her around. She went to a lawyer and he told her she couldn't divorce her husband for just acting like a husband.

"Roberta asked him if there wasn't a way she could divorce him. The lawyer said infidelity was about the only sure way, but she'd have to prove her husband was unfaithful. Roberta asked the lawyer if she was having an affair, could her husband divorce her. The lawyer laughed and said that would be grounds for divorce but she wouldn't get much out of it.

"Roberta wasn't about to have sex with another man because she might get pregnant. Instead, she had... well, she sort of had an affair with Denise and let her husband catch them together. He filed for divorce a week later."

"So, Denise and Roberta are... they uh... they sleep together?"

Nancy shook her head.

"No, it's nothing like that. They were just friends before and Denise helped Roberta out. It was only that one time. They still like men, but have you seen the men who come to a joint like this? They're all full of themselves and think they're God's gift to women. I don't take off my clothes and they still try to get me to go home with them. Thank God they're always half drunk when I get off or I'd be afraid to walk back to my apartment."

Well, if Denise and Roberta weren't lesbians, I wondered why they and Nancy seemed to be such good friends.

"I take it you don't have much use for men either."

Nancy frowned.

"I do, but when your husband doesn't tell you that he slept with a prostitute in France and then got a horrible disease it makes a woman think twice about any man."

"You were married?"

"All through the war. We were dating and when he got drafted I thought it was the patriotic thing to do. We got married and had a one week honeymoon before he went to Europe. Thinking back, I was pretty stupid. I didn't know hardly anything about him. At least I didn't have to hire a private investigator to prove he'd been with another woman. He caught syphilis from a woman in France right at the end of the war. He had to admit it because the Army wouldn't let him come home until he was cured. That was enough that I could divorce him."

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The place started to fill up then by men coming off first shift and wanting a beer or two before they went home. Nancy said she had to get back to work, but she'd check to see if I wanted another drink. When I finished my drink, she was busy so I got up and left.

I thought about what she'd told me about private investigators when I fixed my dinner. It sounded like they did some of the same things I knew cops did. They just didn't usually get shot at and there wasn't any reason for the Mob to pay them for anything. The Mob had thousands of eyes on the street to do their own investigating.

The next morning I looked in the yellow pages for private investigators and found a bunch. Several of them had some information about what they could do. Divorce investigations were in most, but I saw some other things that looked interesting.

They all said they were licensed by the City of Chicago, but I'd expected that. About the only thing you could do in Chicago without some sort of city or state license was take a shit as long as nobody could see you doing it.

A couple offered the service of being personal body guards for people, and several of the ads said they tracked down missing people. Two advertised that they worked for bail bondsmen to find some asshole they'd bailed out of jail but didn't show up in court.

Being a personal bodyguard would be like what I'd done all the time I'd been in the Army. You looked out for the men around you over there. Looking out for just one person would be easy. I wasn't too sure about the rest, but I figured I could learn. That afternoon, I took a bus down to City Hall to find out what I had to do to become a self employed private investigator.

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What I found out is that it wasn't all that hard to get a license. It just took time and money. The GI bill took care of what little training I had to have. The license cost me a hundred and another fifty got me a permit to carry a concealed pistol. One the way back to my apartment, I stopped at Marshal Fields and bought a Smith.38 Police Special and a couple hundred rounds of ammunition.

I also bought a couple hundred rounds of.45 APC for the 1911 I'd sort of sneaked back from Europe when I came home. That 1911 wasn't the one I'd been issued. I had to turn that one in and the serial number had to match my Army records. The one I brought back in the middle of my duffle bag had come from a one of those dumb-fuck second lieutenants who raised up right into the arc of a German machine gun during the Battle of the Bulge.

Nobody ever had time to police up the guns from dead soldiers until the shooting stopped. That second lieutenant wasn't ever gonna need a gun again and I figured it would be good to have a backup so I stuck his 1911 in my pack. When I came home, I thought about turning it in, but when I saw other guys shipping out for the states, I decided to keep it. Nobody was checking duffle bags for anything. I wrapped the 1911, belt and holster in my spare fatigue shirts. The four magazines and the KA-BAR on the belt went into my spare pair of boots. I wrapped the boots in a set of fatigue pants. That's where they stayed until I got off the train in Chicago.

I really liked that 1911, but it was too big and heavy to carry under a jacket. That's why I bought the Smith.

The hardest part about getting a PI license was I had to have some experience at being a PI. I figured that would be like more school, but Harvey Sloan wasn't a teacher. He was a PI who demonstrated how to be a successful PI every day. The experience I got from working with Harvey Sloan for a year was to prove more useful than anything I'd learned in a classroom.

Harvey was a retired Chicago cop who'd started his business before the war. Harvey wasn't married, so it was just him and me up against the cheaters, bail skippers, and other low life Harvey seemed to like chasing down.

Harvey had slowed down some because he was sixty at the time, but he was efficient. He was very polite and sympathetic when some wife asked him to find out if her husband was cheating on her. He'd get as much information from her as he could and then go after the husband.

If it was the husband who suspected the wife, Harvey wasn't as sympathetic. He'd still get all the information he could from the guy, but instead of the quiet conversation he'd have had with a wife, the conversation felt more like an interrogation to me.

Harry wasn't sympathetic toward bail skippers at all. All he needed was a name of somebody who knew somebody who knew the skip. He'd track his way trough that chain of people until he knew where the skip was living.

Now, Harvey knew the law like the back of his hand, but he didn't like being restricted by the law much and especially not when skips were his target. While I never saw Harvey beat anybody up, he had this way of convincing people that he would if they didn't tell him where the skip might be hiding.

He'd just ask a question and then lean back, open his jacket, and feel for the sap he always carried on his belt on the right side. If the person needed a little more encouragement, Harvey would open his jacket and let the butt of the Smith.38 revolver he carried in a shoulder holster show.

I asked Harvey once about his different approaches to those types of cases.

He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned.

"Well, the wives who think their asshole husband is fucking some other broad deserve better, so I try to make 'em feel like I care. I do care about 'em. Most of 'em think it's their fault when it's just that the fucking husband couldn't be goddamned man and keep his dick in his pants. If she divorces the jerk, she'll be rid of him, but she'll be poor for the rest of her life unless she marries some stand-up guy. I just try to tell them it isn't their fault and the end of the world so they'll feel a little better and keep trying to find that right guy.

"The guy who hires me to tail his wife is usually an asshole who doesn't pay enough attention to her. She gets tired of all the cooking and housework and fucking him whenever he wants, and she wants a little something else once in a while. I got no sympathy for an asshole who doesn't treat his wife right. Makes me happy to tell him that his wife if fucking some guy who does. I don't put it that way, but I don't try to smooth out the rough edges either.

"A skip, well, some bail bondsman put up good money to get the fucking skip out of jail. When the skip doesn't show up in court, the bondsman stands to lose all the money for the bail and good luck trying to get what ever the fuck the skip put up to back up the bond. That's the same thing as stealing and I don't hold with stealing. When I bring 'em in, I let 'em know how I feel about that."

As I found out on several occasions, Harvey let them know pretty hard. When he dumped the skip off at Central Booking and the desk sergeant would ask why the guy had a knot on his head or bloody nose or a black eye, Harvey would just smile and say the guy had tried to resist. All the cops at Central Booking knew Harvey. They'd just smile back and say something like, "You'd think they learn not to fuck with you, Harvey."

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I'd been with Harvey for a year when he complained that he was short of breath. After a lot of talking, I convinced Harvey to go see a doctor.

The doctor diagnosed Harvey as having chronic bronchitis. He gave Harvey a prescription he said would help, but said if he didn't get out of the smog in Chicago, it was going to get worse.

A week later, Harvey said he was moving to Arizona and asked if I'd want to buy him out. I asked Harvey how much that would coast me and he shrugged.

"I don't have much. I'm renting the office space and I live here. What I have is my old Buick, my case files, cameras, and a few sets of handcuffs. I'm doing all right as far as savings so I can live on that until I can start business in Phoenix. How about we say a couple thousand?"

I told Harvey I didn't have two thousand and he shrugged again.

"You're good enough you'll make that up in a year or so. You pay me what you can now, and pay me ten percent of what you earn every month until you've paid me back."

Well, as they say, it was an offer I couldn't refuse. I took three hundred out of my bank account, gave it to Harvey, and he gave me the keys to the office and to the Buick. In a week he was on the train headed to Phoenix and I was the sole owner of Matt Carson Investigations.

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Harvey seemed to always be busy, and I was too, though most of my cases were for bail bondsmen. They all knew me because I'd worked with Harvey. When I hauled Alonzo Merini into Central Booking that was one of many cases I had. Most weren't that tough. The guy always tried to run on me, but I could handle that. What pissed me off on that case was Alonzo's girlfriend hitting me with a wastebasket and dumping Alonzo's used rubbers all over me.

}|{

When I walked through the door of Chesty's that night, I looked for Nancy, but I didn't see her. That was odd because she should have been working. I looked for Randy and I didn't see him either. That was even more odd. Randy didn't really trust any of his bouncers to keep things going, so he seldom left the club any time it was open.

I found a stool at the bar and sat down. Beverly, the bartender, perched her big tits on the bar in front of me and asked what I wanted. I said a double bourbon neat and when she brought it, I asked her where Nancy was. Beverly shrugged like she didn't care, but I saw something in her face that told me she did.

"I don't know. She just didn't show up at three like always."

I smiled.

"Beverly, all I want to do is talk to her. You sure you don't know where she is?"

Beverly's face looked like she was afraid of something then.

"I -- I don't know where she is."

"Well, how about Randy? I don't see him either."

Beverly shook her head.

"I don't know where he is either."

Then, she looked at me, leaned closer, and whispered, "You need to stop asking questions like that. They'll get you in trouble."

It was obvious to me that Beverly knew something, but she wasn't about to tell me. I finished my drink, left a buck on the bar for her, and then walked out.

To get to my new office/apartment, I had to go past an alley that ran behind Chesty's and was where Randy got his liquor delivered. I was half way between the buildings when I heard a quiet female voice say, "Matt?"

I wasn't sure where the voice had come from so I looked up and down the street. I didn't see anybody there. Then, the voice said, "Matt, come down the alley."

}|{

About ten feet into the alley was a stack of empty cardboard boxes, and behind those boxes stood Nancy, Denise, and Roberta. Nancy was dressed in her normal table waitress clothes. Denise and Roberta were almost dressed. All they had on were some thin robes.

I stopped and just stared for a few seconds before I could say anything.

"Nancy, what the hell are you three doing out here?"

Nancy sniffed and wiped a tear from her right eye.

"Can you take us someplace safe?"

"What the hell does that mean, someplace safe?"

Nancy sniffed again.

"We saw it and they'll be looking for us."

I shook my head.

"Who saw you looking at what?"

Nancy just pointed back down the alley.

"Down the alley, behind Chesty's."

}|{

There was barely enough light in that alley to see until I got to the back door of Chesty's. The single light bulb over the door wasn't much light, but it was enough for me to see Randy lying on the ground with blood coming from his mouth and the stab wound in his chest.

I felt Randy's neck for a pulse and didn't find one because he was dead as a flounder. Some asshole had killed the man I'd gone to Europe with, the same man who'd become my best friend, and the same man who had saved my life at least twice.

When I looked closer, it was pretty obvious that somebody had beat the shit out of Randy before they stabbed him. His face was a fucking mess. His knuckles and arms were a bloody mess too, so he'd put up a good fight.

As I stood there, it was like I was back on Utah Beach. On Utah I'd see a guy get shot, but I didn't stop to see if he was still alive. If he was, the Medics would find him. If he wasn't, there was nothing I could do for him. If I'd stopped running, I'd have ended up getting my ass shot to hell too. It was on Utah that I vowed I'd kill every German soldier I saw to avenge the guys who didn't make it.

That's how I felt that night. Randy was dead and there was nothing I could do to change that. All I could do for Randy was find out who killed him and make them pay. I walked back to Nancy, Denise and Roberta.

"I live about four blocks from here and it's dark as long as we stay out of the street lights. You three stick together and it'll just look like you're wearing fancy dresses. When we get to my apartment, I want to know what happened to Randy."

}|{

It took a while to walk that four blocks because every time a car passed, all three women would do their best to hide behind me. It was obvious that they were scared shitless. We finally made it down the alley behind my office, and I let them inside the back door.

For almost half an hour after that, it was useless to try to get them to tell me anything. They were all bawling their eyes out and what they did say was pretty jumbled. I poured myself a bourbon and let them cry until they stopped. Then I asked them if they wanted a drink. All three shook their heads.

I was still mad as hell, but I tried to be at least civil.

"All right, what happened tonight? Don't all of you try to tell me all at once. Nancy, you start."

Nancy wiped her eyes and then fished a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.

"There's a room in back that's Randy's office. It's next to the dressing room for the girls and it has a vent at the ceiling between the dressing room and that room. We were back there changing for work when we heard this man talking to Randy. He said he was taking over and that if Randy didn't do what he said, he'd kill him.

"We heard Randy say he owned the club and he wasn't going to let anybody take it from him. He said he was paying for protection and that if the man didn't leave him alone, he'd call Freddy Three Toes.

"The man just laughed and said he wasn't afraid of Freddy Three Toes and it wouldn't do Randy any good to call him. He said he could take care of Freddy Three Toes any time just like he could take care of Randy. Then we heard Randy say, "Fat Tony, if you think you're man enough, come try me."

"We heard some fighting then, and a few seconds later we heard the door to Randy's office open and then slam shut. Then we heard Fat Tony say, "You two stand this fucker up while I teach him a lesson about why you don't fuck with me."

"We went out the back door then and hid in the alley. A little later, the back door opened, and two guys threw Randy out in the alley and then went back inside. Is Randy all right?"

I shook my head.

"Randy's dead. Any of you know who this Fat Tony is or the other two?"

Denise raised her hand.

"I know him. He's a pimp and he's tried to get me to work for him, but Randy always told him to get lost and leave me alone."

"You know who this Freddy Three Toes is?"

Nancy answered.

"I don't know who he is but I know what he is. He's in the Mob and he runs this part of Chicago."

"So, this Fat Tony is one of his crew?"

Nancy shook her head.

"No, but he wants to be. Freddy Three Toes is a really nice man other than what he does for a living. He is always tips me a dollar for every drink he buys for him and the people with him. I know Fat Tony doesn't work for Freddy, because Freddy doesn't like him.

"Fat Tony used to try to buy Freddy a drink when they were in Chesty's at the same time. Freddy always told me to take the drink back and dump it in Fat Tony's lap. I never did because I was afraid of what Fat Tony would do to me if I did."

"How about the other two. Any of you know who they are?"

Roberta said she didn't know their names but they were usually with Fat Tony when he came to Chesty's.

My last question was why did they think this Fat Tony would come after them. Nancy had the answer.

"When the cops find Randy, they'll question everybody who was in Chesty's tonight. What they're doing is finding out if anybody saw what happened. If we're there, they'll question us too and we'll have to tell them what we heard and saw. Word has a way of finding it's way to the street once the cops know something. Fat Tony will know we heard what happened and he'll kill us so we can't give the cops his name."

I shook my head.

"I understand that, but somebody knows you three were there and they'll tell the cops. That'll just make the cops keep looking for you. You're no better off than if you'd stayed there except now the cops have a reason to think you do know what happened. If anything, you're worse off for running. At least if you'd told the cops what you know, you might have some protection."

Denise frowned.

"You don't know much about how the Chicago cops work do you? Some cops make most of their money by telling what they know to men like Fat Tony."

I nodded.

"Yeah, I know about the cops and the Mob, but if Fat Tony isn't part of the Mob, why would the cops tell him anything?"

Nancy smiled a weak smile.

"Well, just like there are guys like Fat Tony hoping to get noticed, there are cops hoping to get noticed too. That's why. Like I said, word gets out on the street about what goes on. The cop tells Fat Tony we saw him kill Randy. Randy can say he has a cop on his payroll and Freddy is always looking for another cop to be his eyes and ears on the street. Once Freddy knows he can buy the cop, the cop will start getting money from Freddy."

I shook my head.

"I hadn't thought much about that, but I see your point. Why did you flag me down though? How do you know I won't do the same thing?"

Nancy frowned.

"It's because I think I can trust you. I know that you and Randy were together in the war. He used to tell me stories about what you did. You never tried to get me to do anything with you. I was pretty sure you wouldn't tell Fat Tony anything, and I hoped you'd help us."

}|{

There was no goddamned way I was going to let Fat Tony to get away with killing Randy. The asshole didn't know it, not yet, but he'd started a war. No matter what the goddamned politicians like to say, just like the war in Europe, a war isn't won by following the rules. It's won by doing what needs to be done when it needs to be done by those able to do it.

I felt like I'd let Randy down because I hadn't been able to look out for him, but I sure as hell could make sure Fat Tony and his pals paid for what they'd done to my buddy, and I wasn't gonna follow any fucking rules.

The problem I had right then though was I had three women in my apartment who were scared to death and they had a reason to be. There was no way I was going to kick their asses back out on the street.

"All right, ladies. You can stay here tonight, but you need to be thinking about what you're gonna do next. You can't stay here forever."

}|{

I woke up on the couch in my office area the next morning and smelled coffee. When I walked into my kitchen, there was Nancy standing over a skillet on my stove, Denise was putting plates on my little table, and Roberta was wiping out four coffee cups with a dishtowel.

Roberta looked up and smiled.

"Sit down Matt. I'll have you a cup of coffee as soon as I get these cups dried. It didn't look like you'd washed them in a while, so I did."

I was going to tell Roberta that I only used one cup and I washed it out every couple days until she turned around and walked over to the table.

Last night, I'd seen that she and Denise were wearing robes, but I figured they had something on underneath them. When Roberta took that first step, her robe opened up from her feet to where the belt was tied around her waist. I was looking at a really nice leg. When she sat a cup of coffee down in front of me, I could tell she wasn't wearing much on top either. The robe gapped open enough I was looking at a really soft looking breast tipped with a darker nipple.

Roberta saw me looking and pulled the lapels of the robe back over her breast.

"Sorry, but Denise and I hadn't put on our dancing clothes when all this happened. I'd have put on something else if I had anything else to put on."

I smiled.

"Funny that you should be embarrassed now. You never were when I saw you on stage. Don't worry about me seeing you. I have something more important to do."

"What?"

I smiled again.

"Let's eat and then we'll talk."

}|{

Nancy was a pretty good cook, at least with scrambled eggs and bacon. She blushed a little when I told her that, but she thanked me.

When we finished, I started asking them questions again. After an hour I had a few answers and a lot more questions.

Fat Tony's name was Antonio Bogandini and he lived in a cheap hotel about ten blocks from my place. As far as any of the three knew, he didn't have a steady girlfriend, but he did sample his girls from time to time. He'd been coming to Chesty's for about three weeks and he'd talked to Randy a few times. Nancy said she'd overheard a couple of their conversations.

"Fat Tony said Chesty's was doing a lot of business and he wanted in. Randy laughed and said Fat Tony wasn't connected so why would Randy even consider it. Fat Tony told him it wouldn't be that way forever and that Randy would be smart to let Fat Tony become a partner.

"Randy said he wasn't interested, and then went back to his office. I heard Fat Tony tell one of the guys with him that Randy would be sorry. They left then."

"Was it the same two guys from last night?"

Nancy nodded.

"Yes. I think they're sort of Fat Tony's bodyguards, though I don't know why he'd need one. He's just a pimp and nobody pays attention to him at all. They were with him every time he came into Chesty's. One of them is a really big guy, like maybe six feet and he's built like a bouncer. I remember him because he had a scorpion tattooed on the back of his right hand. The other guy is short like Fat Tony. I'm five six and they're both shorter than I am. The other guy has a scar on his right cheek."

"Did either of them have a gun?"

All three women shook their heads, but Nancy said she'd seen Fat Tony with a knife before.

"It was one of those... I don't know what you call them, but it has two handles and the blade folds up inside them. Fat Tony used to do this thing where he'd spin it around and the blade would come out. Then he'd spin it again and the blade would go back in. He seemed pretty proud that he could do that."

I figured that was how Randy got stabbed.

"That's called a butterfly knife. They're illegal in Chicago, but I suppose Fat Tony doesn't care. Would anyone else at Chesty's know anything about Fat Tony and these other two guys?"

Denise said, "Liz would know because she's one of Fat Tony's girls. She'd never talk to you though. Fat Tony would find out and Liz would be in big trouble."

"How big a trouble?"

"Well, about a year ago there was this girl named Judy who worked for Fat Tony. She decided she wanted to leave and go back home to Minneapolis. Fat Tony found out and Judy just disappeared. They found her two days later in an alley behind where she lived. She was still alive, but her face was all beat up and one of her breasts had been cut pretty deep. From what I heard from another of Fat Tony's girls, the cuts looked like a letter W with a slash through it. She said that was so the girl couldn't be a who... a prostitute anymore.

"She told me they were all sure it was Fat Tony who did it, but the girl wouldn't tell the police. I don't know what happened to her after she got out of the hospital."

I'd heard enough that I was starting to feel my neck getting hot. That hadn't happened since that day in December 1944 when my unit had helped load the victims of the Malmedy Massacre onto trucks. We'd heard about it, but didn't really understand until we found them.

None of the guys had any weapons because they'd surrendered to the Germans. The SS stood them out in a field and then cut them down with a machinegun. A few had managed to escape, but the rest had been executed for the crime of just being captured American soldiers. By the time we got there, they were all frozen in whatever position they were in when they fell down after being shot.

My company didn't take any German prisoners for a couple months after that. Like I said, in war you make up your own rules to fit the situation. I'd just decided I wasn't going to break any rules because as far as I was concerned, there weren't any rules to break.

I told Nancy, Denise, and Roberta to look through my clothes and take what seemed to fit best. Then I went to my office to think.

}|{

It was a foregone conclusion that I was going to catch up with Fat Tony and his two goons. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with them yet, or how I was going to catch them, but that would either happen or I'd die trying.

I approached it like I would have any skip trace, by talking to people. To that end, I left the women with instructions to keep all the doors locked and to not let anybody inside, and then walked down to Chesty's. I figured one of the bouncers might know something I could use.

I walked down the alley first and then to the back door of Chesty's. Randy's body was gone, but there were no cops there and no indication any cops had ever been there. I figured that what the girls had said was true. Randy's body had been found but the cops had hushed it up. There would be no investigation into his death and he'd end up buried in the country cemetery as just another victim of another unsolved murder.

I walked back up the alley and around to the front and saw a really big guy unlocking the door. He didn't have any reason to have a key unless he'd taken if from Randy. That meant he had to be one of Randy's killers and somebody I needed to know one hell of a lot better. I walked up and smiled.

"Hi. I'm from Rockford and a guy at work told me the girls here are really hot. Are you open?"

The guy looked me up and down and frowned.

"Don't open until one."

"I'll be back at one then. Say, my buddy said there's a stripper here name of Deirdre. Said she had tits out to here and an ass to die for. She on stage tonight?"

The guy shook his head.

"Ain't no bitch named Deirdre dancin' here."

I scratched my head.

"Well, fuck. I was sure he said that was her name, but we were both pretty drunk at the time. Maybe he said Debby or was it Denny... no, I remember now. He said she was called Denise. You got a Denise with really big tits who strips?"

The guy turned to face me then and opened his jacket enough for me to see the shoulder holster.

"Get lost asshole."

I gulped like I was scared and walked away. I'd found out two things. The tattoo on the back of the guy's hand was a scorpion, just like the guy Nancy had described. He also knew there was a stripper named Denise and he didn't want to tell me. That was probably because he was looking to make her disappear.

When I walked away, I only walked across the street and into the entryway of another shop. The guy finished unlocking the door and then motioned to a car parked at the curb. The two guys who got out had to be Fat Tony and his other goon. Both were short. The only difference between them was Fat Tony was living up to his name. The other guy was pretty muscular, but definitely not fat and he had a scar on his right cheek.

I melded into the people on the street and changed doorways once in a while in case anybody inside Chesty's was watching, and I was half a block away when I saw Beverly open the door to Chesty's and go inside. About five minutes later she came out and started quickly walking back the way she'd come. I crossed the street so I could catch up with her.

When I called out her name, Beverly stopped and turned around. What I'd been going to say to her had to wait. She was holding a tissue at the corner of her mouth and her right eye was starting to turn a purplish shade of brown.

"Beverly, what the hell happened back there?"

"Nothing. Just leave me alone."

"Beverly, your lip is bleeding and you're gonna have a black eye by tomorrow morning. Don't tell me nothing happened."

Beverly said there wasn't anything I could do and started to walk away. I caught her by the arm.

"Beverly, I want to help you but I have to know what happened to do that."

Beverly started to cry, but then wiped the tears from her eyes.

"I just got fired, that's all that happened."

I shook my head.

"Nobody who just gets fired ends up with a split lip and a black eye. Who the hell hit you?"

Beverly's face looked like she was pleading with me.

"I can't tell you, not here. They might be watching."

I smiled.

"I can live with that answer for now. I know where we can talk. Follow me."

}|{

I walked Beverly to my office, unlocked the door, and then locked it behind us.

I touched Beverly on the cheek then.

"The first thing we need to do is get that lip cleaned up. You have blood all over your chin."

I walked Beverly down to my bathroom.

"There's soap in the dish and a clean washcloth and towel on the rack. If you need anything else, just ask."

I closed the bathroom door on my way out and then went to my bedroom to make sure Nancy, Denise, and Roberta were still there. They were, but I had to smile.

Nancy was still wearing her waitress outfit, but she'd buttoned another button on the top. Denise and Roberta were both wearing a pair of my jeans and a T-shirt. They were kind of cute because they had to roll up the cuffs on the jeans about six inches. They also had to keep pulling the jeans up. Their asses were wide, but not wide enough to hold up my jeans. They were also pretty erotic because evidently they hadn't put on a bra before they left the club. Their nipples made some very erotic bumps in those T-shirts.

I asked if anybody had tried to get in and Nancy said no. Then I told them about Beverly.

"Beverly, the bartender, is in my bathroom fixing up her lip. Somebody slapped her around and I need to know who and why. She might not want to tell me, but she'll tell one of you.

"Now, you three go to the office in front. I'll bring Beverly there once she's done."

}|{

When I walked Beverly through the door from my apartment area to the office, she looked at Nancy, Denise, and Roberta for a couple seconds, and then said, "They asked me where you three were. It's a good thing I didn't know. All I could tell them was that you were there at the start of the shift, but when I went to see why you weren't out front, you weren't there. You three need to get out of Chicago as fast as you can."

I asked Beverly why, and she surprised me by telling me everything.

"Fat Tony came in to Chesty's that day and asked me where Randy was. I said Randy was always in his office if he wasn't out on the floor. He asked me where Randy's office was and like a fool, I told him. I didn't see the other two guys with him until they all started down the hall.

"They were back there for maybe half an hour before they came back and sat down at a table."

"You didn't go check on Randy?"

Beverly shook her head.

"No, because I knew who they were and I didn't want to get myself killed. I walked to their table and asked them what they wanted. They wanted to know where Nancy was."

Beverly looked at Nancy then.

"Honey, I told them you'd called in sick because you had a migraine headache."

Beverly looked at me then.

"Then they asked me if Denise and Roberta were going to dance that night. I told them as far as I knew they were, but I hadn't seen either one.

They left then, but I saw them talking to Mike, our bouncer, before they left. I asked Mike what they said, and he said they asked him if he'd seen Nancy, Denise, or Roberta that night. Mike told them he hadn't, but that they usually came in the back door so he wouldn't have."

"I thought they were done with us until today. When I got there, Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie were sitting at a table with a bottle of wine. Fat Tony motioned me over.

"He said he was the owner of Chesty's now, and that if I wanted to keep my job, I'd tell him where Nancy, Denise, and Roberta had gone. I told him I didn't know because I really didn't. He didn't believe me at first. He had Ox hold my arms while he slapped me four times. That's why my lip was bleeding. When I said it didn't matter how many times he hit me, I couldn't tell him something I didn't know, he punched me in the face.

"I guess he must have believed me then, because he told me I was fired and to get my ass out of his club before he had Ox throw me out."

Beverly took a tissue from her purse and wiped her eyes.

"I guess that means Randy's dead, doesn't it?"

I nodded and then looked at all four women.

"Any of you know this Ox or Alphie?"

Beverly said she knew both of them.

"Ox is Michael Palone and he's all business. He's the guy who keeps Fat Tony's girls in line and takes care of any of their customers who don't want to pay.

"Alphie is Alfredo Riggotti and Alphie is a little different. Alphie watches the girls and makes sure they're working, but he never asks for a free sample. The girls say Alphie likes one of Fat Tony's girls named Shasta. She's a Mexican woman and she must weigh over two hundred pounds.

"Ox and Alphie come to the club every night about closing time to collect from the girls who work for Fat Tony. That's all I know about them, except Tracy, one of Fat Tony's girls, said they all live in the Grande City Hotel. It's about five blocks from Chesty's on Willamette."

"Does Fat Tony ever come with them?"

Beverly said he only came to the club on Saturday nights.

}|{

At midnight, I told all four women to lock both doors and turn out the lights as soon as I left. Then I changed into black jeans and a black T-shirt. After that I went to get the box I'd stored in a back room.

Half an hour later, I was wearing the service belt and holster and the 1911 with one round in the chamber and a full magazine in the grip. In two pouches on the service belt were two more full magazines. Also hanging from the wire clips on the sheath was the KA-BAR like the one I'd carried from Utah Beach to Berlin. This KA-BAR was on the belt with the 1911 I'd taken from that dumb-fuck Second Lieutenant so I'd kept it. The black high-top basketball shoes would give me good traction and wouldn't reflect light. My lightweight black jacket might seem out of place to some, but it served to hide the hardware on my waist.

All that was important so I wouldn't be seen very well if at all. I was going to do what I'd done on night patrols in Europe. I was going to find the guys who killed Randy and make them pay.

}|{

First on my list was Michael Palone, aka Ox, because he was likely to be the most trouble because of his size. At three that morning, I was waiting in the alley beside the hotel. About half an hour later, I saw a really big guy walking down the sidewalk At that time of night, it could only be Ox. I didn't see Alphie with him, but Alphie was probably fucking his fat girlfriend. I could take care of him when he showed up.

As Ox passed by the alley, I yelled, "Hey asshole. You the son of a bitch named Ox? I want a word with your sorry fucking ass."

Ox squared his shoulders and then walked down the alley and right past where I was squatting behind some garbage cans. I let him pass me and then stood up and swung the pommel of the KA-BAR into his right temple as hard as I could.

He went down like a sack of dog shit. Before he could get up, I put his neck in the crook of the elbow of my left arm and tightened the force until he started to gasp for breath.

The only other sound Ox made was a little rattling sound when I pushed the KA-Bar under his ribs in back and into his heart. I kept my knee and the KA-BAR in his back until he stopped moving. Then I pulled he KA-BAR out, wiped off the blood on his shirt, and put it back in the sheath.

In his left hip pocket I found a wallet with two hundred in fives and tens in it along with a driver's license. I stuck the bills in my jacket and then searched the rest of his pockets. In his right front pocket I found another three hundred in fives and ones. I put those in my jacket pocket as well.

It took all I had to drag his dead ass over to a pile of empty cardboard boxes and cover him up. There were enough empty cardboard boxes in that pile that nobody would see him before the garbage truck came down the alley the next morning to dump the cans.

Once that was done, I went back to my hiding place to wait for Alphie.

Alphie came along about an hour later and he was walking like he was happy. He stopped when I said in a low voice, "Hey Alphie. I got something to tell you."

Alphie looked up and down the street and then looked down the alley. It took me saying, "Come on Alphie. I ain't got all day and Fat Tony will be pissed as hell if you don't tell him about this" to get him started down the alley.

Alphie was shorter than me by about eight inches, so there wasn't any reason to coldcock him like I had Ox. When he passed me, I stepped behind him, put him in a choke hold and then kicked my body up in the air as far as I could. It's a hand to hand combat move that's quiet and works pretty well because it uses the weights of both men and leverage against the victim.

As we fell down to the pavement, Alphie's head was pinned between my chest and my elbow and couldn't move as we fell. Just before we hit the ground I felt the snap of his neck breaking. Alphie jerked a few times and then stopped moving. I figured if he wasn't already dead, he would be soon. To make sure and because I was still pissed, I slashed his throat with the KA-BAR and smiled as a little puddle of blood started forming beside his head.

"Bleed out you fucking son of a bitch, just like Randy did."

Alphie only had a hundred in his wallet and nothing else in his pockets except for two rubbers in foil packs. I kept the money and tossed the rubbers on his chest after I dragged him over beside Ox and covered him up with boxes.

}|{

When I walked around to the front door of the building, I decided that Fat Tony was not only fat. He was really fucking dumb. The front door of the building was unlocked and there was nobody in the lobby. I guessed Fat Tony figured his security was Ox and Alphie, but they weren't gonna help him tonight.

I found Antonio Bogandini on the mailbox and he lived in apartment 8 on the ground floor. While I was looking, I looked for Ox and Alphie's names. They lived on the same floor in apartments 7 and 9. There were no other names on mailboxes for the ground floor and only two on the other three floors. There was one name for an apartment in the basement. That would be the building super and in that part of Chicago unless the building was on fire, the super wouldn't do anything no matter what he heard. I figured Fat Tony thought he was hot shit since he basically had the ground floor apartments to himself.

I looked both ways down the street and saw nobody, but that didn't surprise me. The only people who walked the streets in that part of town that late at night were not people you'd want to meet.

After I put on my gloves, I walked into the lobby and checked to make sure there was nobody at the desk. Then I walked down the hall until I found apartment 8. I pulled the 1911 out of the holster, checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber, and then cocked it and flicked the safety to fire. I didn't plan on using the 1911, but I didn't want to fuck around with cocking it and moving the safety if I had to.

My first three taps on the door didn't do anything, so I tapped three more times a little harder. I heard a voice coming through the open transom window over the door then.

"It's about goddamned time you got here. What the hell were you doing -- fucking all my whores for free?"

I heard the lock click and let the door open about an inch before I slammed it open the rest of the way with my foot and stepped inside. Fat Tony was on his ass and trying to stand up when I closed the door, locked it, and turned around.

There was a little clicking noise as Fat Tony spun the butterfly knife to open it. I laughed at him when I turned and pointed the 1911 at him.

"You think that puny-assed trick knife is gonna help you? My 1911 would splatter your fucking brains all over your apartment."

I grinned then, eased the hammer back down on the 1911, put the safety back on safe and put it back in my holster and latched the flap, then pulled the KA-BAR from the sheath.

"I won't do that though. It would be too fast and I want you to suffer like Randy did."

Fat Tony waved the knife at me.

"Who the fuck are you?"

I smiled.

"I'm just a guy who went from Utah Beach to Berlin with Randy. He saved my ass a couple times and I owe him for that. Now, you gonna fight or are you gonna try to run like a goddamned scared little girl?"

There's a thing about knife fights between two men who know what they're doing that you never see in the movies. In the movies they go on for minute after minute of each man dodging and slashing without making contact until one finally slips or does something to throw himself off balance. The other guy then stabs him in the chest with an overhead grip on the knife. The guy who got stabbed falls down and says something around the blood coming from his mouth before he jerks a couple times and then dies.

In reality, a real knife fight lasts for less than a minute and it's bloody as hell. That's because if you know what you're doing, you grip the knife with the blade pointed out under your hand so it becomes an extension of your arm. That overhand grip that looks really intimidating in the movies will guarantee that the blade will hit a bone and stop before you get to anything vital. The right way gives you an advantage of control as well as extending your reach.

What you do is wait until your opponent makes a jab at you. You block that jab with your other arm and then jab your knife into areas that have the most blood flow, like his groin or neck. If you can't get to his neck or groin, you jab for the gut since that will cause immediate and intense pain. As soon as your knife goes in, you back out and start circling the other guy while you wait for another chance. The other guy goes down from losing blood or he decides he's not gonna win and tries to run away. I never let them get far.

This fight didn't last even a minute because Fat Tony had evidently learned how to use a knife from the movies. Fat Tony took a swing at me with the butterfly knife. I blocked that swing with my left arm and then jabbed for his throat. Bright red blood sprayed from his neck then, but he tried one more swing. I blocked that swing and then jabbed at his neck on the other side. About ten seconds later, Fat Tony fell down and dropped the butterfly knife.

I picked up the knife and held it in front of his glazing eyes.

"Randy wants to give you the same thing you gave him."

Fat Tony gurgled a little when the blade of the butterfly knife slipped under his ribs and into his heart. I left it there so remind him of Randy, though Fat Tony was past remembering anything by then.

I listened for a while to see if anybody had heard the fight and was coming to see what had happened, but after five minutes everything was still quiet. I started searching Fat Tony's apartment.

Half an hour later, I closed the door and walked back out the front door of the building. In my jacket pocket was six grand I'd found under the mattress of his bed, and another five hundred he had in his wallet. The sky was starting to brighten a little so I walked through alleys as much as possible to get my ass back home.

}|{

When I walked in the back door of my apartment/office, the four women were sitting around my kitchen table drinking coffee and looking worried. Nancy looked at me and said, "You have blood all over you. What did you do, start a war."

I smiled.

"It was just a tiny little war and I won. You don't have to be worried about Fat Tony and his two guys anymore."

"You killed them?"

"Let's just say that there are some things worth fighting for and when I find one of those things, I fight just like Randy and I did all through Europe. This wasn't any different."

Denise shook her head.

"We're still in trouble. Somebody will take Fat Tony's place and eventually they'll find out. They'll kill us out of revenge."

I smiled.

"I've been thinking about that. With Randy gone, there's not much keeping me in Chicago. I knew a couple guys from Nashville when I was in the Army. They said it hardly ever snows there and that the people are pretty nice. I'm thinking someplace like Tennessee would suit me better. I have a car. Want to come along?"

}|{

It took a day to drive all four women to their apartments to get what they could pack into a suitcase. We went to Nancy's apartment first since she still had on clothes a woman would wear. Her suitcase weighed a ton and I asked her if she'd put the kitchen sink in there. She just smiled and said shoes weigh a lot.

Once I'd lugged the suitcase back up to my apartment, Nancy let the three other women choose something that would fit. I stayed in my office. When Denise, Roberta, and Beverly walked into the office, I had to grin. While it looked like Denise and Roberta hadn't found a bra that fit, they looked great.

"You three look a lot better in what you're wearing than you do in my jeans and T-shirts."

Roberta smiled.

"We're going to stay dressed too. Denise and I talked it over and we're not going to do any more stripping. We're getting too old anyway."

Beverly said she might still be a bartender, but it depended upon if she found the right guy or not.

Nancy didn't say anything. She just smiled.

By that night, all four had clothes on that fit and I'd packed the trunk of the Buick Roadmaster. It was a '39 model Harvey had bought in '45, and it hadn't been driven much because of the war. It would hold all five of us, and it had a trunk big enough to hold four big suitcases and what I was taking with me. I wasn't taking much, just my clothes, what I'd gotten from Harvey, and the box with my Army stuff. At six the next day, we had breakfast, and by eight we were driving down 83. We picked up US 30 at Dyer, and stopped for lunch in Schererville, Indiana. After that, I followed US 41 down to Henderson, Kentucky where we ate dinner and spent the night.

That night was interesting. I was going to pay for three rooms, one for me and two for the women, but the only motel with rooms available only had two. I said I'd sleep in the car, but Nancy said after all I'd done for them, they wouldn't let me.

"Denise, Roberta, and Beverly can take one room. I'll stay with you."

I shook my head.

"That's not gonna work."

Nancy smiled.

"I think I can control myself so you won't have to worry about me doing anything to you."

"Nancy, it's not you that I'm worried about."

"Oh... so you can't control yourself? I didn't realize I was that uh... exciting. I always thought I was just pretty average."

I was getting frustrated.

"No you aren't... I mean, yes you are ex... well, how will we sleep together and what about the bathroom?"

Nancy smiled again.

"I'll go take my bath and then put on my pajamas. I'll get in bed while you do the same. In the morning, we'll do it in reverse."

"Nancy, I don't wear pajamas."

Nancy pursed her lips for a second that then grinned.

"Hmmm... I can see how that might give rise to a problem, so to speak."

Then she smiled.

"If it does, I'll be asleep so I'll just ignore it."

Beverly giggled then.

"Honey, maybe I should sleep with you and Matt. If there's two of us and one of him, he won't be able to do anything."

Nancy smiled.

"No. I trust Matt."

}|{

It took me a while to get to sleep that night. It wasn't because I was having second thoughts about Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie. They were just the result of doing what needed to be done. It probably sounds like I was a fucking hard-ass, but they were no better than the cockroaches in Fat Tony's kitchen or the rats in the alley behind the Grande Hotel that had probably been gnawing on Ox and Alphie all night.

It wasn't that I felt anything in particular for Nancy either. It was just that she was there and I hadn't slept with a woman in my bed for years. She'd stir a little and her bare foot would touch my leg, or I'd hear her breathe in deep and then let that breath out slow.

I was awake by six and got up and put my clothes back on. When I came out of the bathroom, Nancy asked what time it was. I looked at my watch.

"It's a little after seven and we need be going if we're going to make Nashville by this afternoon."

}|{

We rolled through Clarksville, Tennessee at about nine, and made Nashville about ten.

I found a motel that looked like it was reasonably clean and booked four rooms for a week. We had lunch at a diner, and then I asked all four women to come back to my room. When they were all sitting on my bed or in the two chairs, I opened the box of my Army stuff and took out the stack of cash I'd taken from Fat Tony's room.

After I gave each of them a thousand, I explained.

"Fat Tony and his boys had this money, but I figured where they're going they wouldn't need it. I've paid for the rooms for a week, and the grand should give you time to find a job and an apartment. I'm sure that's what Randy would have wanted."

I just stood there while all of them cried. After they finally stopped, I said I'd treat them to dinner that night.

}|{

It took Denise and Roberta all of two days to find jobs. They were still working in a club, but it was a country club and they were waiting tables. In another two days, they gave me the address and phone number for the apartment they were sharing, kissed me on the cheek, and said good bye after I'd lugged both suitcases from the Buick to their apartment.

Beverly took three days, but she was happy with her new job.

"It's a new restaurant and club down on a street named Printer's Alley. They only take reservations and the food is really expensive. That means the people who come there have a lot of money. The manager said a bartender usually takes home about thirty a night in tips.

"I'll be tending bar in the part that has live music. They have real stars who come there to play and sing. They also have burlesque shows, not just strippers, but real burlesque shows.

The best part is... well, I took the bus down there last night. People were walking down the sidewalk like they didn't have a care in the world. It'll be great to feel safe when I get off work."

By that Friday, Nancy had found a job waiting tables at a place called Mom's.

"It's a little bar and restaurant and I'll be waiting tables like before. The owner said I won't get a lot in tips, but things don't cost as much in Tennessee so I should do all right. It's across the alley from the Ryman Auditorium and the owner said a lot of the country music people go there after their shows."

She said she'd been looking for an apartment but hadn't found one she liked yet. I asked her what was wrong with them. Nancy looked at her feet and her voice was really soft.

"None of them had you in them."

I lifted Nancy's chin so I could see her face.

"Nancy, you don't know me at all."

Nancy wiped her cheeks with her hand.

"I don't have to know any more than that when we needed help you helped us. I don't know any other man who would have done what you did."

"What if one of these days the police come and arrest me? Would you still feel the same way?"

Nancy nodded.

I would, but nobody's going to come arrest you, not even if we'd stayed in Chicago. Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie will be just three more bodies that the police won't waste their time on. They'll just figure it was a Mob thing and let it go at that.

"Randy told me that in that part of Chicago you could shoot somebody dead on the street at noon and no cops would come looking for you. A lot of cops are on the Mob payroll and the cops who aren't know enough to not get involved in anything with the Mob."

Well, I didn't know what to say other than that I'd let Nancy move in with me until she could find a place of her own. I know, any PI worth a shit should have figured out what she was really telling me, but I didn't.

I found a two-bedroom apartment, went through the red tape of getting a PI license and a carry permit in Tennessee, and then opened up shop. Business was a little slow at first, but evidently there was a shortage of PIs in Nashville. The clients were a little different though.

In Chicago, I'd made most of my money bringing in skips. In Nashville, I got several cases that ended up in divorce court and even more cases to find some young kid who came to Nashville to break into the music business there. They'd talk to their parents until they ran out of cash and it became obvious they weren't going to get a record contract. Then they were too embarrassed to call and say they'd failed and wanted to come home. Most ended up washing dishes in diners or waiting tables in a bar.

When I started getting enough business to pay the rent and still have something to eat, Nancy quit her waitress job and became my secretary. By then, I'd started to understand what she'd been saying. I couldn't imagine living in my apartment without her.

}|{

I didn't make the decision until I went to Billy Bob's Pawnshop and Jewelry Emporium one afternoon. I was looking for a woman whose husband thought she'd skipped town with a musician. He'd talked to the Nashville PD but they told him since his wife was thirty-two they couldn't do anything unless he suspected she'd been abducted. He came to me in hopes I could find her.

The husband was also a musician and said his best guitar was missing. He figured she'd hocked his guitar to get enough money to live on. That seemed like a pretty good guess, so I was hitting the local pawnshops to find out if Mrs. Brady had hocked a guitar.

Billy Bob grinned when I showed him Wanda Brady's picture.

"Yep, I remember her. Brought in an old Gibson SJ-100 flattop that was beat to hell and stunk like an ashtray. Looked like a '40 or '41 model. It had some cracks in the soundboard and the frets were worn down to nothing. I gave her fifty for it. I'd show it to you, but my repair guy has it."

Billy Bob grinned then.

"You ain't wearing a wedding ring. You look kinda old to still be single. That because you fought in the war?"

I knew what was coming, but I let Billy Bob talk.

"Yeah, Europe from Utah to Berlin. That sorta kept me from finding a wife."

Billy Bob grinned again.

"Well, I can fix you right up if you got a girlfriend. This drummer walked in a week ago and wanted to sell me his drums. Well, I ain't got no use for drums. It's one thing to let some guy play a guitar or a banjo so's he knows how it feels and sounds. I don't need no drummer showin' me how he's as good as that Krupa feller or Buddy Rich.

"I told him I didn't buy drums so he pulled out this ring box from his jacket pocket. Seems he was gonna ask this woman to marry him, but he found out she was sleepin' with the lead guitar player of their band.

"I felt sorry for the guy. He was a vet, like you, and was trying to get back to Dallas, so I gave him five hundred for the rings. Since you're a vet, I'll let you have them for the same five hundred. Checked 'em my self and they're real gold and real diamonds."

Billy Bob was pretty good, but I'd been around too many pawnshops in Chicago to believe him. Nobody with any brains takes really good rings to a pawnshop. They take them to a jewelry store where they'll get a reasonably honest appraisal. If the rings were even gold and not just gold-plated brass, it was likely the rings were ten-karat gold instead of eighteen karat. The diamonds were probably just glass. Billy Bob would have given the guy maybe twenty-five bucks.

I shook my head.

"Nope, no girlfriend. You don't happen to know where Mrs. Brady went, do you?"

Billy Bob smiled.

"Sure do. She was with this guy who said he was headed to Memphis to play in the jazz clubs there. Said his name was Kirk James. Never said she was married though and she weren't wearin' any rings. I expect she's in Memphis with him. Don't know what he saw in her. Nice body but a face like a mud fence."

I thanked Billy Bob. As I shook his hand, he grinned again.

"You bein' a vet and all, I'll hold them rings for a week just in case you change your mind."

Well, I wasn't going to pay five hundred bucks for rings from a pawnshop, but it did start me to thinking. I'd gotten so used to Nancy living with me that the thought of not having her there was almost painful. I decided to drive to Memphis to hunt down Mrs. Brady. It would take me probably at least two days and maybe three counting drive time. That would give me enough time to decide if I just liked having Nancy there to cook and talk to, or if there was something more.

}|{

Two days later, I was back on the road to Nashville. In my camera case were three rolls of film with pictures of the guy and Mrs. Brady at the Memphis Zoo. Billy Bob had been right. Mrs. Brady wasn't much to look at in the face, but she had great tits and a tight ass. It seemed like she knew about both because she didn't seem to mind the guy feeling her up. Some of the pictures were of Mrs. Brady sitting on the guy's lap at a picnic table, Mrs. Brady grinning when he squeezed her heavy tits, and Mrs. Brady rubbing the guys crotch under the table. I know the guy didn't mind that because he was grinning.

I thought I had enough until the guy slipped his hand under Mrs. Brady's dress. She was facing me at the time, and she wasn't wearing panties. I took three pictures of the guy's fingers on her hairy cunt before she pulled the dress down; I was probably going to have to pay the photo lab guy an extra ten to get that last roll developed and printed.

I'd found Mrs. Brady so her husband could divorce her without giving her half of what he owned. I'd also discovered something about myself.

Throughout the war, I'd been content to just get a handjob from a whore when Randy and I got relieved for a couple days. When I got back to Chicago, I'd been too busy getting licensed and starting my business to even think about a woman. After Randy had been killed and I had four women living with me, all I'd thought about was revenge.

Now, sitting behind the wheel of the Buick and wishing the miles were going by faster, I realized I missed Nancy the whole time I'd been gone. It wasn't her cooking. I'd had some fantastic meals in Memphis. It wasn't the company either. The problem was the same as Nancy had told me about her apartment search. It was just that she wasn't there.

I then started being realistic about my situation. If Fat Tony had just been trying to attract attention from the Mob, I might be all right. If he was more connected than I knew, I might not be. I wasn't too concerned about being able to take care of myself. What I was concerned about was being able to take care of Nancy.

Beverly probably wasn't in any danger. If she had been, she'd never have made it out of Chesty's that day. Denise and Roberta had seen Randy's body thrown out of the back door of Chesty's, but they'd been too far away to see who did it.

Of the four women, Nancy was the only one who had heard Fat Tony telling Ox that Randy would be sorry for not giving him a piece of the club. Somebody would have seen her talking to me, and would think she'd probably told me that. Randy had never been backwards about telling anybody who'd listen about our time together in Europe. Once Nancy had told me, I'd gone looking for Fat Tonly and his two goons, I'd found them, and I'd killed them. If I was looking for whoever killed Fat Tony, I'd be looking for Randy's best friend and that would be me.

If the Mob came after me and found Nancy there, both of us would probably be found dead and buried in some field of tobacco plants.

By the time I got back to Nashville, I'd decided the only solution was to make Nancy go somewhere else. I was still working on how to tell her that when I parked behind the building.

What I'd intended to do was sit Nancy down, explain the situation and then tell her I'd help her get resettled somewhere else, like maybe Chattanooga or Atlanta. I didn't get the chance.

When I walked in the door, Nancy ran up, put her arms around me and hugged me tight.

"I worried about you the whole time you were gone. I'm so glad you're back."

I gently pushed Nancy away and then told her we needed to talk about something. She grinned and said we could do that later, but that I should look at something some guy had dropped off that morning.

"This guy came to the office and asked if you were here. I told him you wouldn't be back for probably another day. He said he couldn't wait and gave me this package. He said to give it to you when you got back. It looks important."

The letter size manila envelope only had my name and address. There was no return address and no stamps or postmark. I tore open the flap and pulled out the four pages inside.

On the top was a clipping from the business section of the Chicago Tribune. The short article said a former bar called Chesty's had been completely remodeled into an Italian restaurant and cocktail lounge. The new owner's name was Fredrico Rinaldi. There was a little about the new restaurant that I skimmed through, and then a short biography of Fredrico Rinaldi.

According to the article, Fredrico Rinaldi was a WWII veteran who'd been wounded during the fight from Anzio to Rome. He'd earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star when he took out a heavily fortified German machine gun bunker that had his platoon pinned down. Though Corporal Rinaldi had been rendered incapable of walking after he was shot in the foot, he had still crawled through enemy fire for over fifty yards to get close enough to throw a satchel charge through the opening of the bunker and kill all the German soldiers inside.

According to what he told the reporter, when he was in Italy, he'd been to several restaurants there. After eating authentic Italian food, he'd decided Chicago needed a real Italian restaurant like the restaurants he'd seen in Italy.

The second was also a clipping from the Tribune from the day after I'd left Chicago for Tennessee. It wasn't a headline article. It was just an article describing the deaths of three men in and around the Grande City Hotel on Willamette. There wasn't a great lot of detail, just their real names, the fact that all had been stabbed, and a listing of prior offenses.

At the end of that article was a statement by the police spokesman that they suspected the three been killed when they were robbed because none of the three had any money on them. The police were investigating several leads and were convinced the killer was still in the same area of Chicago.

The third page was a color photograph of a huge white marble headstone with a carving of the US Army 4th Infantry patch on the front. That headstone read, "Randall Gomolka, March 10, 1923 -- June 15,1947, CPL US Army, 4th Infantry Division." There was a vase of flowers next to the headstone. At the bottom of the picture was typed, "All Saints Polish National Catholic Cemetery, Chicago, Illinois."

The fourth page was a typewritten letter.

"Mr. Matt Carson,

"I am an attorney representing Mr. Fredrico Rinaldi, a man of whom you may or may not have knowledge. It was his request that I send you the two articles and the picture.

"As the first article states, Mr. Rinaldi is a veteran of WWII just as you are and just as was Mr. Randall Gomolka. Mr. Rinaldi has a great deal of respect for all veterans, and especially for both of you. He also has a great deal of respect in your ability to find people who do not wish to be found, and in your ability to avoid detection while doing so. He told me that a man who could do what you did in the war is a man for whom he would always have the highest respect.

"There were certain persons who were not aware that Mr. Rinaldi's respect for Mr. Gomolka was such that Mr. Rinaldi was a silent partner in Mr. Gomolka's business. He was extremely heartbroken by Mr. Gomolka's demise and since Mr. Gomolka had no living family in Chicago, Mr. Rinaldi took it upon himself to honor Mr. Gomolka by paying his funeral expenses and to purchase the headstone in the picture.

"Mr. Rinaldi has no proof, but he is convinced that some unknown person knew Mr. Gomolka was viciously killed by the three person's mentioned in the newspaper article. He received much gratification in learning that said unknown person had avenged Mr. Gomolka. He asked me to find that person that he might convey his thanks. After an extensive but failed investigation, I have given up all hope of being able to do so.

"I write this letter in hopes that as you appear to have investigative skills much superior to my own, you would no doubt be able to identify that unknown person to Mr. Rinaldi should you so wish to do so. Mr. Rinaldi was very specific that I present this as an opportunity and not as a request. He wishes it to be your decision and your decision only. He offers you no reward except for his deep appreciation of your service to our country.

"Perhaps if you visit Chicago, you will stop by Mr. Rinaldi's restaurant for a meal and a drink or two. He would greatly appreciate speaking with you of your time in the US Army in Europe.

"Dario Santori, Attorney at Law"

I put down the letter and looked a Nancy.

"What did this guy look like?"

Nancy shrugged.

"Just a guy. He had black hair and a suntan and he was wearing sunglasses. The only thing odd about him was he was wearing a suit and tie. Everybody else in Nashville seems to wear jeans."

I leaned back and chuckled. Nancy asked me what was so funny. I grinned.

"Did you ever hear Freddy Three Toes' real name?"

Nancy thought for a few seconds.

"Well, not his full name, but I think I remember hearing somebody call him Fredrico once or twice."

"Did Randy ever say anything about Freddy Three Toes being somehow special?"

"Oh yeah. Randy never said why, but he always kept one table reserved and when Freddy came to the club, I was supposed to sit him at that table. Why?"

I handed Nancy the clippings and the letter.

"Take a look at this and you'll understand."

Nancy read the first clipping announcing the opening of Mr. Renaldi's restaurant, then looked up.

"You think Freddy Three Toes and Fredrico Rinaldi are the same person?"

"I don't know, but I'd bet Freddy got his nickname because he lost two toes at some time. Doesn't it seem like an odd coincidence that Mr. Rinaldi was awarded the Purple Heart after he was shot in the foot?"

Nancy read the second article then, and when she looked up this time, her mouth was open.

"This article is talking about Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie. It says the police think it was just some robber who killed them and that they're still looking for the killer in Chicago. That can't be."

I asked Nancy why and she frowned.

"I doubt Fat Tony would keep the fact that he killed Randy and then took over the club to himself. He was the type who'd have bragged about it so somebody in the Mob, probably Freddy, would gain some respect for him and offer him a job.

"Randy told anybody who would listen that you were his best friend all through the war. The cops would have talked to everybody who went to Chesty's and they'd have found out your name and what you do. When you disappeared, that would just make them suspect you even more. They should be looking for you, not some person who killed Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie when he robbed them."

I smiled.

"What if the cops thought Freddy had those three killed? Would the cops go after him?"

"No, but why would they think Freddy did it?"

"Well, like you said before, some things tend to get out on the street. Somebody knew Freddy was a silent partner in Chesty's, probably the same cops Freddy was paying to not mess around with Chesty's. He wouldn't have had to tell them why. They'd just assume that Freddy had some interest in Chesty's. After Randy was killed and then Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie got themselves killed, the cops might figure it was Freddy who ordered it and it would be healthier to just let the whole thing drop."

Nancy frowned.

"Yes, that's possible. I just didn't know that Freddy was that close to Randy."

"Apparently he was. Look at the picture."

Nancy had to wipe her eyes after she looked that picture of Randy's headstone.

"There are six red poppies in that vase. Whoever put them there must have known Randy really well and really liked him. Randy loved red poppies because they're the national flower of Poland. When I bought some to surprise him on his last birthday, the florist asked me if I needed a sympathy card. When I asked him why he thought I would, he said that Polish people often put red poppies on a grave because they symbolize everlasting peace."

I nodded.

"Now, read the letter."

Nancy read the letter, then read it again before she looked back up.

"So Freddy owned part of Chesty's? Randy never said anything about that."

"Well, I doubt Freddy wanted anybody to know that. I always wondered how Randy was staying afloat since there were never many customers there. I think Chesty's was probably a good place to put some of the money Freddy got from his illegal businesses. The books would show that money as cash sales and those sales would become cash profit. By being a silent partner, that money would come back to Freddy as cash paid for some service or for inventory or for some sort of contractor work.

"It's almost impossible to track cash other than by finding something in the books of the businesses involved. The books would balance so Randy wouldn't be in trouble. Freddy would lose a little to Randy, but he wouldn't have paid taxes on the cash so he probably came out ahead."

"That's why he bought the headstone for Randy's grave isn't it?"

I said it was probably that but also since he and Randy were both veterans.

"Combat changes you. People you serve with become brothers. You think of other combat veterans the same way even if you never met them. It's the fact that they shared the same experience and still came out alive."

Nancy looked down again.

"This says the lawyer couldn't find out who killed Fat Tony and the others, but if that's true, how did he find you?"

I smiled.

"That's the point of the letter. The letter tells me that Freddy knows I'm the one who killed those three, but he's not looking to do anything to me. That's why the letter says the lawyer couldn't find the man who killed them so he's stopped looking. The letter is Freddy telling me I don't have anything to worry about because he agreed that the three needed to be killed. My guess is he'd have ordered it done if I hadn't beaten him to the punch.

"It looks to me like Freddy has used his contacts in the Chicago police to stop their investigation too. That means he's not going to do anything to you, Denise, Roberta, or Beverly either."

Nancy smiled.

"So does that mean we can do anything we want now?"

I chuckled,

"Well I wouldn't say anything, but as long as it's legal to do in Tennessee, yes."

Nancy smiled again.

"Well, that's good to know. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

I probably stammered a little because that envelop had changed everything.

"Nancy, I -- I... well what I was going to tell you is that it wasn't safe for you to be around me and that I'd help you go somewhere else. I didn't really want that, but it was the only way I could see to keep you safe if somebody from Chicago came after me."

Nancy frowned.

"What about now?"

"Well, I didn't think I'd ever say this to a woman, but I don't want you to go anywhere except for right here."

Nancy pursed her lips.

"I'll still be your secretary?"

"Yes, if that's what you want."

"What if I want something else?"

"Then I'll help you find that too."

Nancy grinned.

"What if what I want is to have the man who saved me and three other women show me that he doesn't want me to leave?"

"How would he do that?"

Nancy stroked my arm.

"Well, the way most men would show a woman how he feels is to kiss her."

"And after that?"

Nancy chuckled.

"If you need me to explain that to you, you're not the man I think you are."

I smiled.

"Nancy, I don't need you to explain anything to me except to convince me that this is something you really want."

Nancy didn't say anything. She just stood up, walked to the door, and pulled down the roller blind that has "CLOSED" painted on it. Then she locked the door, walked back to me, put her arms around my neck, and grinned.

"I've wanted this since that night we slept together in that hotel room. If that doesn't convince you, maybe this will."

}|{

I figured Nancy might be a little tentative when she kissed me, but there was nothing tentative about it. It wasn't an, "I think I like you a lot" kiss. It was a full-blown, "I want to be fucked and I want to be fucked right now" kind of kiss.

When Nancy eased away and got down off her tiptoes, she grinned again.

"Well?"

"Nancy, I don't have... well, I don't need you pregnant after everything else you've been through."

Nancy smiled.

"I figured you'd say that. While you were gone I took the bus to Walgreen's. They druggist looked at me kind of funny, but he sold me a box. How long do you think a dozen will last?"

I smiled.

"Long enough for you to decide if you made a mistake or not."

Nancy started unbuttoning my shirt then.

"I'm not making a mistake. I have a lot of time to make up and I want to make it up starting right now."

Her nails on my bare chest pretty much took away any thoughts other than I wanted Nancy. I took her hand and led her into my bedroom. I did give her one last chance though.

"Nancy, are you really sure about this?"

Nancy smiled.

"Shouldn't you be undressing me now?"

}|{

The whores in Europe did their best to convince us GI's that they needed to be fucked. That was because a fuck was worth three C-rations and a hand job was only worth one. They'd sidle up to you and rub your crotch and tell you they'd never met a man with a cock as big as yours. They grab your hand and pull it to their tits and then moan when you touched their nipples. Most couldn't speak English worth a shit, but they all knew the words, "Fuck me now", "I need to be fucked", and "I want your big cock in me".

If you did fuck one of them she was all about telling you how close she was to cumming, complete with a lot of sighs, some loud moans, and a scream or two. That was so you'd blow your load and then leave so she could get some other GI's cock in her cunt. We all knew it was fake, but I have to admit, it did raise my cock some.

Nancy didn't have to try. Just lying on my bed naked was enough. It was more than enough when she spread her thighs and pulled me between them.

She didn't hurry and she didn't say anything about how big my cock felt or how she was getting close. All she did was put her hands on my back and push a little into my strokes. The first indication I had that she was close was her fingernails digging into my back.

Even then, she didn't cry out or make any sound other than some quiet little gasps. I felt her body contracting and then releasing my cock though, and that was enough that I stopped holding back.

Afterwards, she stroked my back and whispered, "Now I believe you don't want me to go."

}|{

After that night, things smoothed out quite nicely. During the day, Nancy was my secretary and at night she was my lover... well it was more like we were lovers together, each trying to make the best of being locked together in that timeless embrace.

That situation didn't change for six months. Then, Beverly brought back my concern about Chicago.

I came home from taking pictures of a guy fucking his girlfriend on a picnic table in one of the local parks. It was early on a Wednesday morning and there was nobody else in the park, so I guess they figured they were safe. I walked into he office congratulating myself in giving the asshole's wife the proof she needed to sue him for divorce.

That all evaporated when I saw Beverly sitting on the couch.

She looked really upset and she'd been crying, so I asked her what was the matter. She blew her nose and then told me in a really shaky voice.

"I was working last night and this guy walked up to my bar and told me he knew I'd worked at Chesty's in Chicago. Then he said he knew you brought me to Nashville and that I'd know where you lived.

"I told him the last time I'd talked to you, you were living at the hotel you rented when we got to Nashville. He said I would know how to get in touch with you and if I didn't he'd kill me so you'd have to find him. He told me he knew you killed his brother. I think he's here to kill you and he'll kill me so I can't say anything to the cops.

"I didn't know what to do, so I came here. I don't know if he followed me or not. I took the bus and I didn't see him get on, but he might have just followed the bus in his car. I didn't want to get you in trouble, but I didn't know what else to do."

I patted Beverly on the shoulder.

"You did the right thing, Beverly. Did this guy tell you his name?"

Beverly shook her head.

"No, but he looked a lot like Fat Tony."

I didn't know that Fat Tony had a brother, but I wasn't going to let him hurt Beverly and I sure as hell wasn't going to let the son of a bitch kill me.

"Beverly, you stay here until I find this guy and send him back to Chicago. Did he tell you anything else, something that will let me find him before he finds me?"

Beverly blew her nose again and then frowned.

"No. He just said he'd be back tomorrow and I'd have to tell him where you live."

}|{

The next afternoon, I took Beverly to the club where she tended bar, then found a parking place and fed the parking meter for the next ten hours. When Beverly walked out of the club, I drove up to pick her up. When I asked her if she'd seen the guy, she said if he'd come to the club, he didn't say anything to her.

For the next two days, I took Beverly to work, waited until she got off, and then took her back to my place for the night.

The third morning, I was having breakfast with Nancy and reading the Tennessean to see how much the politicians had fucked up the day before. One article at the bottom of the front page caught my eye.

The words in bold type were, "Man's Body Discovered in Abandoned Barn."

The article included a picture of the man and a picture of a car in front of a rundown barn. It went on to say that the man had been identified as Philario Bogandini by his Illinois driver's license. The cause of death was two small caliber gunshots to the back of the man's head. The medical examiner had determined the time of death to be approximately three days prior to the body being discovered in the trunk of a 1946 Ford Coupe that had been parked inside an abandoned barn south of Nashville.

The Nashville police had determined that the man was a resident of Chicago and that he had recently been released from prison after serving two years for running a numbers and loan-sharking business. The car had Illinois plates and had been reported as stolen three days earlier by a salesman from Chicago who had stopped for the night in Nashville. The Nashville Police were asking the public to report any information they might have about the man or the car.

When Beverly walked into my kitchen, I showed her the article.

"Beverly, was this the guy who threatened you?"

Beverly looked at the picture for only a couple seconds before she nodded.

"That's him. He looks dead. Is he?"

"Looks to me like that's why he hasn't been back to threaten you."

Nancy frowned at me.

"Matt, did you... I mean, back in Chicago, you..."

"No, Nancy, I didn't kill him. If I'd found him, I would have, but I didn't. I don't know who did, but I have my suspicions. The whole thing smells like a Mob hit to me."

Beverly looked stunned.

"Here in Nashville? That only happens in Chicago and New York City."

I smiled.

"That's one of the reasons I think it was a Mob hit. Nobody would be expecting something like that to happen in Nashville including Fat Tony's brother. To the cops here it would probably just look like some guy pissed of somebody and they killed him.

"I don't think it was just a coincidence that some sales guy from Chicago stopped over in Nashville and had his car stolen the same day this guy was shot in the head. Two shots in the head is a way the Mob takes out somebody unless they want the killing to make the headlines. A shotgun to the head at close range or a car bomb make the headlines. Two shots to the head to some guy nobody ever heard of doesn't.

"Sticking the body in the trunk of a car is also something the Mob hitmen have done for a long time. It hides the body long enough for the killer to get away to somewhere else, but the stink will result in the body being found at some later date. It's the same message, just done a little quieter."

I showed Nancy the article then.

"Nancy, see anything odd about the picture of the car?"

Nancy looked at the picture and then caught her breath.

"Is that a red poppy on the hood?"

I nodded.

"I think it is, and that's another reason I think it was a Mob hit. That flower was meant to send us a message. Who else would know there's anything special about red poppies besides you and me?"

Nancy smiled a little.

"Freddy would."

}|{

Now, I admit that every day I took Beverly to work, I had my Smith strapped to an ankle holster on my left leg. I didn't think Fat Tony's brother would do anything where Beverly worked. Instead, he'd follow her back to her place. Then he'd know where she lived. Once he knew that, he could take his own sweet time convincing her to tell him where I lived. I figured he'd kill her as soon as he beat my address out of her. After killing her, he'd kill me.

If I saw another car following me, I wasn't going to take her back to her place though. I was going to lead him out into the countryside. Once I had him someplace with no people, I fully intended to shoot him in the head and leave him there for some farmer to find. There would be no witnesses and I'd wear gloves so if I touched his car anywhere, I wouldn't leave any prints. I also wouldn't leave any cartridge cases behind if I used the Smith revolver, so the only evidence the cops would have would be a.38 caliber bullet, just like a.38 caliber bullet fired from any one of the thousands of such revolvers in circulation.

What I figure happened is Freddy got wind that the brother was out to settle up with me for killing Fat Tony. The salesman was one of Freddy's crew and had driven the Ford from Chicago to Nashville. He'd found out where the brother was staying and had taken care of the problem. Reporting the car stolen was an easy way to get the cops to start looking for the car while he caught a train back to Chicago.

My theory was somewhat confirmed two weeks later. I'd hauled a skip into the station and was talking to the desk sergeant after they took the guy to holding. I said I'd read about the murder and wondered if they'd caught the guy yet.

The desk sergeant shook his head.

"No, and the Captain doesn't think we ever will. The only guy who might know something is that salesman, but he disappeared on us. We tried to get some information about him from Chicago, but they didn't have any records of him in their police files, the car was registered to a woman who was dead, and he never got a driver's license through the Illinois DMV. The Illinois license he showed us was either a fake or he bought it under the table. I've heard that's pretty easy to do in Chicago. A hundred bucks to the right person at the DMV will get you a real driver's license but you'll never show up as having one issued to you. A car registration costs less than that.

"The Chicago Police had a lot of information about the guy who got shot. He had a record going back to when he was sixteen. The only thing about him they didn't have was any living next of kin. They put an article in the Chicago papers asking if anybody wanted the body, but nobody showed up. He's in the country cemetery now in case anybody does show up and wants him."

}|{

Well things are back to normal, or at least what passes for normal for a PI who lives with a woman who's his secretary during the day and his wife at night. I still chase down a skip once in a while, but like I said before, most of my business is finding lost kids and proving some guy is fucking the next door neighbor while his wife is at work.

We've been back to Chicago once, but I didn't have dinner with Freddy. I learned long ago to not press my luck. Nancy and I just toured a couple museums and then went to All Saints Polish National Catholic Cemetery where Randy is buried.

We had to ask at the desk for the location of the grave. The man at the desk looked it up and then showed us the location on a map. Then he smiled.

"I haven't seen you before. Did you know Mr. Gomolka well?"

Nancy and I both nodded. The man smiled again.

"He must have been well liked. Every day somebody puts flowers in the vase beside his headstone."

We followed the directions to Randy's grave. Nancy saw it before I did, and I felt her take my hand in hers and squeeze it tight. She had tears in her eyes when we walked up to the headstone. There, in a brass vase stuck in the ground beside the headstone, were six fresh red poppies.

}|{

Some might say I committed three murders and that I should feel guilty. They'd be wrong on both counts. I didn't murder three guys any more than I murdered all the German soldiers I shot in Europe. All I was doing in Europe was putting an end to some men who thought their superiority and use of lethal force could make people do what they wanted. Because of what they were fighting for, they didn't deserve to keep breathing the air that good people need.

Fat Tony, Ox, and Alphie were the same type. They were out to get what they wanted by intimidation and lethal force. Just like Nazi Germany, the only way to stop them was with lethal force. Yes, the legal system could maybe eventually have put them in jail, but Randy deserved quicker justice than the legal system could ever have given him.

I don't feel guilty about sending three assholes to hell where they belong. The only regret I have is that they died too fast. They should have spent some time being beat to a pulp just like Randy did. If I had it to do over again, I'd make sure they did.

As far as digging any deeper into the relationship between Freddy Three Toes and Randy, well, they say it's best to let sleeping dogs lie. In this case, I figure it's best to let Randy rest in peace right where he is and not question how or why he got there. I've already done for Randy as much as I could do. It didn't begin to pay him back for saving my ass several times, but I like to think he'd appreciate it. I'm sure he'd have done the same thing for me.