Anything But Saintly

Chapter 16

Both men were dead when I examined them. I walked over to the corner where Whisky Joe Glapa had been heading. Beneath a water spigot there was a large bucket. Next to it, leaning against the wall, was a bag labeled: Plaster of Paris — 50 lbs. Newspapers had been spread over an area of about six feet by six feet in the corner.

It didn’t take much imagination to deduce what Whisky Joe and the bulky Ray had planned. They had intended to plant my feet in plaster of Paris in order to anchor my body firmly to the bottom of the river. This is an ancient device originated during the bootleg gang wars of the twenties, but its age doesn’t make it old-fashioned. Modern mobsters still use it because no one has come up with a quicker, simpler or more effective way to dispose of embarrassing corpses without a lot of elaborate equipment.

It sent a cold chill along my spine just to look at the preparations which had been made for me.

Near the front of the building there was a small office with a glass panel at the top of the door. Through the glass I could see a phone on a desk, but the door was locked. I went outside to hunt for Vichek Czekanski.

I found him seated on an iron mooring post at the river edge, contemplatively smoking a pipe. The street lights along Front Street cast only a dim glow that far; apparently he assumed I was his brother-in-law until I was right on top of him. He looked surprised when he recognized me and saw the gun in my hand.

Motioning him to his feet, I said, “Turn around, Vichek. Hands on top of head.”

He looked offended but he didn’t give me any argument. His pipe was in his right hand when he rose to his feet. Clamping it between his teeth, he put his hands atop his head and turned his back. Removing his pistol from its holster, I dropped it into one of my side pockets and checked him for additional weapons. I did a more thorough job than the bulky man had, but he wasn’t carrying anything else.

“Okay,” I said. “You can drop your hands and turn this way.”

Letting his arms fall to his sides, he faced me. “You didn’t have to take my gun,” he said aggrievedly. “I’m not in on whatever Ray is up to.”

“You just think you weren’t,” I told him. “When a private citizen sits idly by and makes no attempt to prevent the murder of a cop, he’s an accessory.”

“I made an attempt,” he protested. “You heard me beef to Ray.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And I suppose you were sitting out here trying to get up energy enough to run to a phone and report my predicament to headquarters.”

He took his pipe from his mouth, knocked it out and dropped it into a jacket pocket. “You don’t look very dead to me. They must of let you go.”

I motioned toward Front Street with my gun muzzle. “Let’s go back to the warehouse,” I suggested.

I walked behind him, keeping him covered. He pushed through the small door next to the truck entrance. I followed him in, closed and bolted the door behind me. Vichek gazed wide eyed at the two bodies lying on the floor.

“Jeepers,” he said. “They dead?”

“Uh-huh. And you’re an accessory to attempted murder. Know what the rap is for that?”

He turned to face me. He had paled and his thin lips trembled. “I didn’t have nothing to do with this, Matt. It was all Ray and his partner.”

“You were accepting five hundred bucks for letting them use the warehouse.”

“I didn’t know what for. I thought they probably just wanted to lean on some guy a little. Somebody in the racket who had stepped out of line. I didn’t know they planned to burn no cop.”

“What racket?” I asked.

He looked disconcerted. “Ray had something to do with policy. I been letting him store the slips in here. They come in by boat.”

“Your employer is going to be pleased to learn how you use his warehouse,” I said. “Who owns this place?”

“Phoenix Wire,” he said reluctantly. “They have to know about it?”

That was such a stupid question, I didn’t feel it deserved an answer. As it seemed unlikely that the Phoenix Wire Company had been involved in the murder plan, I shifted the course of my questioning.

“What was your brother-in-law’s name?” I asked.

“Ray Zek.”

“Who’d he work for?”

Vichek shrugged. “He never said. Who runs policy around here?”

“A number of people in different areas,” I said. “You ever hear him mention Art Nowak?”

“Little Artie? I don’t think so. I’d remember that, because I know Artie from the old neighborhood. He never mentioned nobody. Ray wasn’t one to talk about his business.”

“Where’d he live?”

“In an apartment at Franklin and Garrison.”

That was in the sixth district, where I also lived. The uptown area was a middle-class residential district with a largely independent vote and was relatively free of rackets. At least no one powerful politician controlled it. So Ray Zek’s place of residence didn’t make me any wiser. He could have been working for any of a dozen racketeers in town.

“You know where Whisky Joe lived?” I asked.

“The other guy? I didn’t even know that was his name. Ray just called him Joe.”

“Okay,” I said. “How’d this setup come about? When did your brother-in-law first contact you?”

“He phoned here about twelve-thirty. There’s a phone in the office. The place is locked at night, but I got a key. All he said was he needed a little privacy to work a guy over, and there’d be five hundred in it for me if he could use the warehouse. He said a guy named Joe would be along first, and to let him in and he’d be along later. Joe showed up about twenty minutes later and carried in a bucket and a sack of plaster of Paris. He left his car outside. He asked if I had any old newspapers around. I found him some and he spread them over in the corner.”

It must have been about a quarter of twelve when I left Jake Stark, I thought. Forty-five minutes later, plans for my murder were being put into effect, and forty minutes after that Jake’s phone call to me had come. It hardly seemed likely to me that Stark had arranged things on his own, since he wasn’t big enough in the rackets to be hiring professional killers. I suspected that if Jake had decided on his own to put me out of the way, his speed would have been to wait in the alley behind my apartment house and personally put a bullet in me. It seemed much more logical that Jake had discussed matters with Artie and Artie had ordered the murder.

I said, “Didn’t Whisky Joe’s preparations cause you to suspect he and your brother-in-law had murder in mind?”

Vichek shook his head. “Honest to God, it never occurred to me until you and Ray got here.”

With my gun I motioned toward the door to the office. “Get out your key and open that.”

Preceding me, he brought out a key ring and unlocked the door. I let him enter ahead of me.

“Can’t you give me a break, Matt?” he asked. “I got a couple of kids.”

“You’d like to hide behind them, huh?”

He examined me doubtfully.

“Guys like you make me sick,” I said roughly. “You’re hired to protect the warehouse and you let a policy racketeer use it for everything from storing policy slips to murder. When you get caught, you throw your kids at the cops.”

“You can’t say I was in on the murder plan,” he protested. “I didn’t even know about it until Ray showed up with you.”

“You’re the watchman here. You were wearing a gun. If you were too yellow to use it, you could have gotten to a phone and called headquarters. But you sat down on a mooring post smoking your pipe and waiting for these hoods to finish the job.”

“Hell, Matt, he was my brother-in-law. You can’t expect a guy to yell cop on his own brother-in-law.”

“I guess not, when there’s five hundred bucks in it,” I said dryly. “Sit down over there where I can watch you.”

I pointed to a wooden chair in the far corner. Sitting in it, he took out his empty pipe and nervously began sucking on it. I seated myself behind the desk, laid my gun next to the phone and dialed headquarters.

When the desk answered, I said, “This is Sergeant Rudd of Vice. I’ve got a couple of dead bodies at the Phoenix Wire Company warehouse on Front Street. Send me a radio car and the meat wagon. Better inform Homicide too.”

“These are homicides?” the desk man asked.

“Uh-huh. Justifiable. Suspects killed by a police officer during the commission of a crime.”

“Any emergency situation?”

“Everything’s under control. I’m holding one live suspect. I want the radio car as soon as possible, though. I want to turn over my suspect, because I’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Roger,” the desk man said. “I’ll have one there in a couple of minutes.”

Hanging up, I ordered Vichek to his feet and back out into the main part of the warehouse. Unbolting the front door, I left it open so that the light flowing through it could act as a directional beacon for the radio car. Then we waited.

It only took a few minutes for the squad car to arrive. Two uniformed policemen stepped inside.

Flashing my badge, I said, “Rudd of Vice, Gambling and Narcotics.” Then I pointed to Vichek Czekanski. “Put some cuffs on this guy.”

He would have been cuffed when they got there if I had been carrying a set with me. But I never carry handcuffs off duty. I had told Ray Zek a lie about not wearing a gun off duty. St. Cecilia detectives are required to carry a gun at all times unless specifically excused for some reason such as disability. But they aren’t required to carry handcuffs except on duty.

While the younger officer was cuffing Czekanski, I gave the senior one a brief rundown on the situation. I didn’t fill him in on the background. I only told him the dead men’s names and that I had been kidnapped and brought to the warehouse to be killed. I also explained the night watchman’s minor part in the plot.

“Whisky Joe Glapa mentioned a boat tied to the dock,” I said. “I guess they meant to use it to transport my body to the middle of the river. Better locate it for evidence. When the homicide team gets here, tell them I’ll stop at headquarters later to give them a statement.”

“You’re not going to wait?” he asked.

“I’ve got a call to make,” I told him. “I’m leaving you in charge.”

Walking over to the truck entrance, I pushed the sliding door upward, then moved to my car and climbed in.

“You can close it after me,” I called to the older cop.

Starting the engine, I backed out.