Free The Devil You Know by P.N. Elrod Page B

up and dutifully hoisted. “What day is it?”
      “Monday night.”
    He groaned. “Impossible. Far too early in the week. Everyone go away.”
    “Not just yet. Get a load of who walked in. Remember Jack Fleming?”
    Clapsaddle squinted at me. He was in his forties, blond hair turning silver, his once handsome features going soft, sliding fast from distinguished and into dissipated, so he looked ten years older. That’s what regular weekend benders will do to you. “Yes, you owe me five dollars.”
    “No, I don’t.”
    He squinted at Barrett. “Then it’s you who owes me five dollars.”
    Barrett started to protest, but Izzy shook her head. “Never mind, he says that to everyone and sometimes it works. Behave yourself, Clappie.”
    “Thus speaks my diminutive conscience. Did we make our deadline today?”
    “With thirty seconds to spare. It’s a whizzer of a story, too.”
    “Clip it for me to read on Wednesday. Now, what must I do to get rid of you three?”
    I grabbed the opportunity to use his encyclopedic brain. “Tell me what you know about Fleish Brogan, does he still run a trucking company, and does he make people disappear?”
    “He’s a smart and dangerous bas—son of a gun.” Clapsaddle was not so hung over as to use vulgarities in front of a female. It was one of his private rules. “Yes, he does, and it’s been known to happen.”
    “Did he have any connection to Graft Endicott in ’31?’
    “Such as Endicott defending Brogan on a murder charge and being so clumsy as to get caught trying to bribe a jury member? They declared a mistrial and didn’t go for another. Evidence mysteriously disappeared from the DA’s office at about the same time as Endicott.”
    “Endicott did that?”
    “Tip of the iceberg, my lad. You were around here then, where’s your memory?”
    “I pickled it that year.”
    “Yes, you put in a lot of evenings on the dog watch. Avoid it next time by getting yourself a column and a brilliant guardian angel to write it for you.” He threw a companionable wink at Izzy, who shook her head and went back to the desk to flip through the clippings.
    “About Endicott. . .?”
    “The DA had a solid case, but the graftster disappeared. The first thing they suspected was that Brogan had removed him. Endicott would have violated attorney-client privilege and done his best imitation of a canary if it meant avoiding a trip upstate to scenic Ossining on the Hudson. The second thing they suspected, after they found he’d cleaned out his bank account, was that he’d done a bunk to South America.”
    “Who was Brogan supposed to have murdered?”
    “A business rival who failed to follow through on threats he’d made to kill Brogan. They found the body on a sidewalk outside the Pendlebury Hotel; supposedly he leaped to his death all on his own. That said, what is your interest in the two of them?”
    “I’m working on a story.”
    “For whom? I’ve friends employed by various Chicago papers and none of them dress so well.”
    “ The Times is involved,” said Barrett. “London, of course.” He’d played up his accent, trying to sound more English, I guess. I wanted to kick him.
    “And I’m the Duchess of Windsor,” said Clapsaddle, waking up more. “What’s the story, Fleming?”
    “You’ll read it in Atlantic Monthly ,” I said. “Or True Detective , I’ve not made up my mind where to send it.”
    Clapsaddle growled, but it turned into a groan, and cupped his head with one hand. Green from the neck up, he was in no condition to attempt to scoop me.
    “Where does Brogan hang his hat on a Monday night?” I asked. “His trucking firm?”
    “Hardly. He has lesser minions running that place. It’s gone legit now, anyway. He’s got other businesses like that chop-house over on . . . oh, that burned down.”
    “Gang war?”
    “Drunk cook. Brogan invested in a new place, trading the cook for a bartender and dancing girls, but you can still get a good steak