Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2) Read online

  That would be a good phrase for Agnes to look up in our new encyclopedia, he thought as he rode the elevator downward. In the olden days, it meant dragging your cloak behind you in the hope an enemy trod on it, thus precipitating a confrontation. In modern time, it meant being as conspicuous as possible just in case someone was looking for you. Someone like that crazy chick with her death threats – and someone I can put the collar on.

  T.J. noshed down at Emrick’s on Sutter, one of his favorite watering holes. After a lunch of bratwurst on pumpernickel, pickled eggs and a couple of draft lagers, he ambled along Sutter, Kearny, Pine, Battery and Market, stopping often to inspect the wares on display in the shop windows. At Market and Sansome, Flood and Flood’s office was now only a short distance away. T.J. had in effect circumnavigated the agency’s home turf, watching, watching, watching all the while. There was no rapid movement affecting him, no flash of a grey cloak disappearing around a corner or into a doorway. All is quiet on the Fruitcake Front today, he admitted to himself. And after that walk of several blocks, he also admitted he could use another beer, but figured he’d better get back to Agnes and her encyclopedia buddy.

  T.J. and the man from Collier’s arrived within minutes of each other. T.J. supervised as the salesman removed the volumes from the cardboard box, wiped each one reverently with a soft cloth and handed it to Agnes for placement in the bookcase. He initialed the invoice, made sure Agnes got a copy and then performed Flood and Flood’s first official act of research. He selected the ‘MA’ volume and looked up the entry for ‘machete’. It didn’t add much to T.J.’s sum of knowledge. Machetes, Collier’s said, were used both as agricultural tools and as weapons. Useful for lopping off such weedy, long-stalked plants as sugar cane (and people’s heads, T.J. thought). The younger Flood then leafed through the Collier’s atlas. Ah, a street map of Chicago. “That’s where I grew up,” he said to Agnes, pointing a blunt finger on a North Side neighborhood.

  The phone rang. One of the principals at Derby and Kneith wished to consult the agency about the Baggett case.

  “He’ll be coming right over,” Agnes told T.J.

  “Geez, I hope it’s not another train ride,” he muttered.

  The journey this time, however, would be one of a much shorter duration. Ambrose Derby was a heavy man, with a ruddy complexion. T.J. noted that his girth was straining the buttons on his waistcoat.

  “Because of the garish nature of the latest death threat,” Derby said, “Mr. Baggett wants you to accompany him to a meeting at the Palace Hotel in two days’ time.”

  “Why can’t the fuzz do that?” T.J. asked. “Surely they must be taking this threat business seriously by now.”

  “Up to a point,” Derby said. “A radio car makes periodic circuits past Mr. Baggett’s residence and there will be police presence at the hotel. Apparently, there are no plans for extended surveillance. I venture to add that the department appears to have other things on its mind at present.”

  “You mean other than crime?” T.J. paused. The rumors about turmoil on Kearny Street popped into his skull. Gotcha, he thought. “So?”

  “Be that as it may,” Derby said. “Mr. Baggett has specifically requested your involvement. He was quite satisfied with your quick thinking and forthright action at the Oakland Pier.”

  T.J. sighed and reached for the phone on his office desk. “Bring me the Baggett file, angel,” he told Agnes. “We need to add a rider to the contract.” Turning to Derby, he added: “Details, please.”

  “Mr. Baggett is a member of the South of Market Improvement Association,” Derby said. “He owns some rental flats on Howard Street, a couple of vacant lots and a large warehouse on a Southern Pacific spur which he leases to an importer of coffee beans. There will be a luncheon at the hotel, followed by a meeting. The purpose of the meeting is to select SOMIA’s two representatives at the opening of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge later this year. The members will then be taken for a ride up onto the brand new bridge – quite an exciting prospect, actually.”

  Quite, T.J. thought. “Where do I jump on the wagon?” he asked.

  “Mr. Baggett would like you to accompany him and Mr. Loomis in the Packard and back home again. And, of course, stand watch at the hotel.”

  “SOMIA,” T.J. told himself. Sounds just like insomnia to me.

  ****

  The new synagogue certainly brightens up the neighborhood, Sam thought as he parked the car. After a few false turns, he was eventually ushered into what appeared to be a small assembly hall. Chairs lined two walls and a large table was placed at the far end. Rachel Wise was a spare woman of medium height, with intense eyes behind a pair of rimless glasses and her greying hair tied back in a bun. He told her his name, the nature of his mission and mentioned Solly Silverman.

  “Ah, Solomon,” Rachel said. “A generous member of our flock. He tries to help as much as he can. And he’s worried about Sharon Greenberg? We all are.”

  “So you know she is … ah … absent,” Sam said.

  “Yes, I am. Her mother called and the police were here – briefly. There’s not much I can tell you. I haven’t seen Sharon in, let’s see, four days. Her duties were voluntary, and she usually let us know when she was otherwise engaged.”

  “What were the nature of these duties, if I’m not being too nosey.”

  “Private detectives are supposed to be nosey, aren’t they? But you are not, in this situation. What you are looking at in this hall is Beth Sholom’s private little relief center. I don’t suppose you know much about the politics of self-help?”

  Taking in Sam’s negative shake of his head and bemused quirk of his lips, she continued: “Of course not. Well, what we are doing is technically illegal because the authorities say we’re not supposed to help. Our faith has always prided itself in looking after our own. Our private philanthropy, the Eureka Benevolent Society, works hard to ensure that indigent Jews have enough to eat and a roof over their heads during these terrible times. About three years ago, the bureaucrats decreed that all relief be funneled through official agencies. Now, Jews have to go to city and county offices to receive their relief checks. And the checks are smaller. The Society used to provide, for instance, $9.62 a week for a family of five, while our generous politicians only allow $6.67. That’s why the families still come here – for a little extra cash we try to give them. Sharon helped with that and I could tell she was distressed about not being able to do more.”

  Sam wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this recitation of despair. He knew times were tough. He knew Flood and Flood had felt the pinch of the hard times, although things seemed to be getting a little better. However, the impact on the street was something he never thought much about.

  “I … um … I—” he began, when Rachel Wise saved him the embarrassment of stammering out a reply.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Flood,” she interrupted. “You are here to inquire about the fate of one person, not the whole Jewish race. Please, ask men anything you wish about Sharon. I do so want to help.”

  “Was Sharon’s behavior different in any way in recent days? A change of mood, perhaps, a physical change?”

  Rachel thought for a moment. “Physical … um,” she said. “Sharon did seem to be … restless. Almost as if she was waiting for something to happen. Not necessarily something bad. As if, I don’t know, things were about to change. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, it does,” Sam said. “Something new and different had entered her life, or someone new and different. A boyfriend?”

  “Not Sharon, I don’t think, not the way she was brought up. Not behind her family’s back. Wait a minute, though. She did mention a new friend she had – a young woman, a Gentile. The last time we talked together, Sharon asked where she could take this new friend for help. Apparently, she was … I’m searching for the right description here, Mr. Flood … a fallen woman. A tart, actually, to be blunt about it. I suggested contacting the Episcopalians or the Roman Catholics.�
�

  “Did this friend have a name?”

  “Sharon called her ‘Tawny’.”

  “Tawny, as in a tawny cat.”

  “I guess so.”

  Tawny, Sam Flood thought. Obviously a stage name … or a work-name. Was this fallen Tawny a prostitute? “She didn’t give any details about Tawny’s … ah … problems?” he asked.

  “She didn’t spell anything out, but thinking back, it is apparent Sharon had taken someone under her wing and was trying to find help for her. That conversation was the last I had with her and that was the last time anyone here saw her.”

  Sam thanked Rachel for her time and gave her his business card. “Call us if you hear anything – anything that will help us find Sharon,” he said.

  “Of course I will, Mr. Flood. Our hearts are with you. Mazel tov.”

  Sam knew the expression meant, among other things, ‘good luck’. I’m beginning to think I’ll need it, he told himself.

  Chapter 5

  Bertha Ginsdorf was on duty at the family bakery’s retail counter. She was a pretty little girl, with shiny black hair peeking out from under her baker’s cap. The white smock she wore fell almost to the floor. She was not surprised when Sam introduced himself.

  “Mother was talking to Mrs. Greenberg,” she said. “We knew they were trying to get some help finding poor Sharon.” She led Sam to a small table in one corner of the shop. “I’m so worried. Sharon is my best friend ever. I hope nothing bad has happened to her.” Tears glistened in the young woman’s eyes.

  “I’m sure no harm has come to Sharon,” Sam soothed. “It’s probably some sort of mix-up. The folks over at the synagogue seem to think she met somebody. Somebody new.”

  “Not somebody new – somebody different, I guess.”

  “So you are still her best friend ever,” Sam said. “She must have told you her plans. Best friends always tell each other their plans.”

  A customer came in and Bertha sprang up. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Horowitz!” she trilled. “How are you today? The usual?”

  “Please, my dear.” Mrs. Horowitz was elderly and her voice was just above a whisper.

  Bertha selected four bagels and put them in a paper bag. “Can I interest you in some knishes? They are especially tasty today.”

  “I would love some, but just the bagels, my dear,” Mrs. Horowitz replied. Sam suspected the old woman was on a strict budget. When Bertha returned to the table, he prompted her with a probing question: “Plans? Boy plans, perhaps? ”

  “Oh no, not a boy. We always talked about boys.” Bertha gave an incongruous giggle.

  ‘What kind of plans, then?”

  “Oh my, plans. Always some sort of a plan – to solve all mankind’s problems, usually. Sharon is my dearest, dearest, dearest friend, but she is just so … impractical … sometimes. She desperately wants to save the world, but one person can’t save the whole world!”

  “Maybe one person at a time,” Sam suggested.

  “Yes, that was – is – her latest plan. A girl, not a boy. A woman, really, I think. A taxi-dancer, Sharon said. Her special project was a taxi-dancer.”

  “Rachel Wise at the synagogue mentioned a name, a new friend called Tawny. Did Sharon mention Tawny to you?”

  “No, she didn’t, Mr. Flood. Tawny?” Bertha shivered slightly, as if she had been brushed by something cold and unpleasant. “All she talked about was her ‘special project’.”

  A taxi-dancer named Tawny. Sam admitted to himself that he knew very little about taxi-dancing. He’d have to find somebody who did. T.J.? Since his bride’s passing three years earlier, T.J.’s lifestyle had become unpredictable, so perhaps he had explored taxi-dancing.

  ****

  Entering the office the next morning, the senior Flood was pleased to note that the encyclopedia had arrived. Hanging up his fedora, he went straight to the bookcase and selected the “TA” volume.

  “Can I help you with that, Mr. Sam?” Agnes asked from her desk.

  “No need, Miss Wilkins. Is the Collier’s paperwork in order?”

  “Yes sir, and put in the file.”

  The entry on taxi-dancing contained some illuminating information and one surprise. Taxi-dancing had been declared illegal in San Francisco about 15 years earlier. So where was Tawny doing her dancing? As Sam was putting the volume back, T.J. blew in. “Let’s talk, pop,” he said, tossing his fedora at the hat rack and missing. Agnes scurried over to pick it up.

  Father and son went into Sam’s office. Sam filled his pipe and T.J. pulled out an Old Gold. “I’ve got us a job,” T.J. said, lighting the cigarette.

  “So have I,” said Sam. “You go first.”

  “Our dear friend Mr. Baggett is in circulation again,” T.J. said. “He’s going to a bun-toss at the Palace tomorrow and he wants me along to hold hands with him.” He gave the elder Flood the details.

  “Shouldn’t Kearny Street be handling this? That latest death threat was quite specific.”

  “The flatfeet aren’t giving it their full attention, according to Baggett’s mouthpiece. Besides, he thinks I’m the cat’s pajamas since that business over in Oakland and wants me around for the ride.”

  Sam then told the younger Flood about Solly Silverman’s missing niece and his interviews the day before. “It has been five days now and I’m concerned that the window is closing,” he said.

  “It sure is. It’s getting near the time to start dragging the bay – and checking out the ditches,” T.J. said.

  “Think positively, Thomas. There could be any number of explanations. This Tawny woman for instance, who might be a taxi-dancer. Except—”

  “Except those dance halls were closed down by the city years ago. Which only means there could be an illegal one on every street corner in the Tenderloin that we don’t know about.”

  Sam puffed on his pipe in silence for several seconds. T.J. lit another Old Gold in self-defense. “Ten cents a dance,” Sam said finally. “The women were employed by the dance hall. The men would buy books of tickets and give the women a ticket in exchange for a dance. That was a tough way to make a living.”

  “Don’t forget the house rake-off,” T.J. said. “Probably 50 percent. That would make it even tougher. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those dames contracted for a little extra activity after the dancing was done.”

  “So if this Tawny woman is a taxi-dancer, she must be part of an illegal activity. What has Sharon got herself into?” Sam paused for another long moment. “When was the last time you talked to Packy Shannon?” he asked. Shannon was a local crime lord.

  “Oh boy, not since that opium bust a couple of years ago. Wait a minute. Ran into him at the track last summer. Gave me a hot tip. The nag won by eight lengths.”

  “I want you to call him for me, set up a meeting,” Sam said. “These clandestine dance halls – if indeed they exist – are almost certainly prostitution-oriented. That puts them in Mr. Shannon’s sphere of influence,”

  The Old Man sure loves to spout those eight-dollar words, T.J. thought. “Why don’t you call him?” he protested. “I don’t know him any better than you do.”

  “But you’ve had dinner with him. And you speak the same language.”

  “Well, I’d better do it right now,” T.J. said. “I’ve got that Baggett stunt tomorrow.” He went to his office and called Shannon’s private number.

  “Yeah?” a gruff voice answered.

  “This is T.J. Flood. I wanna speak to Packy Shannon.”

  “What was that name, again?”

  “Just shut up and get your boss, buster.”

  Shannon came on the line after several seconds. “Well, well, it’s the cheeky Flood boy. What’s up Thomas, find a stiff in your front parlor with my name tattooed on his forehead?”

  “It’s nice to talk to you, too,” T.J. said drily. “We’d like some advice, if you’re not too busy. A missing person case. A young girl.”

  “What, you think she’s in one of my houses? Ho
w old is she?”

  “We don’t think that at all, Packy. She’s 17.”

  “Too young for me, anyway.” Shannon let a small sigh escape. “Well, you folks saved my ass once, so I guess I can spring for some free advice. Not over the phone, though. You know Luigi’s spaghetti joint on Geary? Meet me there at two o’clock. I’ve got some business with Luigi and I can squeeze you in afterward.” He hung up.

  ****

  Vido Cerutti, Shannon’s main muscle and driver, was standing outside the restaurant when T.J. arrived. They nodded to each other and Cerutti led Flood to a small anteroom. “The boss will be here in a few minutes,” he said and departed abruptly. The few minutes stretched into several and T.J. began thinking about ordering up a plate of pasta when Shannon arrived.

  Shannon took a chair opposite T.J., pulled his watch out of a vest pocket and consulted it. “You have 12 minutes,” he said. “Start talking.”

  “We are looking for a young girl named Sharon Greenberg who has been missing for five days. According to one of our informants, she may have taken up with a taxi-dancer named Tawny. We know taxi-dancing is illegal, but thought you … uh … might have some connection with that … uh … activity.”

  “Tawny? I have six Tawnys on my books. One of them spells her name with an ‘i.’ None of them are taxi-dancers, though. You want to talk to Digger O’Doul. He runs those dance halls.”

  “Digger O’Doul?” T.J. asked.

  “Yeah, Digger. You want a little help disposing of some hot items, he’ll dig up a fence for you. You want a wild night with the opposite sex, he’ll dig up four or five chicks. You want …”

  “I get the picture,” T.J. said. “Taxi-dancing?”

  “Digger runs a string of taxi-dance halls – three around the Tenderloin, one down by the docks. I think one of them concentrates on the ethnic trade. I let him operate.”

  “You mean Shannon The Great doesn’t run every little scam in San Francisco?”

  Shannon gave T.J. a hard look. “Don’t push your luck, little man,” he said. “This is a wide-open town, if you haven’t noticed. There’s lots of places a guy can go to if he wants to dip his wick. If they try to get too big and fancy, I take ’em over.”