Murder Most Deadly Read online

  Murder Most Deadly

  J. S. Chapman

  Murder Most Deadly

  J. S. Chapman

  Copyright © 2019 by J. S. Chapman

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Previously published as The Green-Eyed Dick.

  MURDER MOST DEADLY has been completely revised and re-edited for your reading enjoyment.

  Weatherly Books

  Chicago, IL, USA

  Author Website: jschapman.com

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  This digital book is licensed for your personal reading enjoyment and may not be resold or given away to others. Reproduction in whole or part of this book without the express written consent of the author and/or publisher is strictly prohibited and protected by copyright law. Short excerpts used for the purposes of critical reviews is permitted. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  From the author

  Book Notes

  I don’t want to die. Especially I don’t want to die in the street, punctured by gunfire.

  «»

  Al Capone

  Chapter 1

  NOT A DAY passes that somebody doesn’t ask me how I first met the king of rock ‘n’ roll. What do I tell them? I tell them it’s a long story but it all started with the green-eyed dick.

  My name is Iris Grenadine. I’m a reporter with the Chicago Daily Standard. Been covering the town since graduating from journalism school two years ago, diploma hot in hand and expecting to change the world one story at a time. I’m on a mission to right the wrongs, defend the innocent, and memorialize the dead. I supposed this sounds pretentious, but for me it’s personal.

  It was the summer of ’55. July in Chicago means sun, mosquitoes, humidity, long days, and short nights. Beaches are crowded all day, every day, and all night too. Everybody swills iced tea by the gallon. Fire hydrants shoot out cold water into the streets. Children play until the sun goes down. Windows and doors are thrown wide open. Mothers adopt every kid on the block, and everybody looks after everybody else.

  This summer, tempers ran high, but nobody expected a scandal was about to break the town wide open.

  These were the salad days. The post-war boom was roaring as if there were no tomorrow. Money was easy to come by. Mommies and daddies were bringing babies into the world at a record pace. Howdy Doody and Ding Dong School had become rites of passage. Automatic washing machine and power lawn mower entered our daily lexicon. Wonder Bread was the choice of millions. Bologna sandwiches, Jays potato chips, and a tall glass of cold milk was the lunch of choice. Quiet family dinners around the kitchen table were out. Tuning into I Love Lucy on a flickering black-and-white television set while eating Swanson TV dinners and guzzling Coca-Cola was in. When Marilyn Monroe stood over a sidewalk grate and treated moviegoers to a spectacle of her silk underwear, every woman under the age of thirty began wearing halter tops in public.

  I dropped a dime into a public pay phone. One of my sources gave me a tip. I rushed out of City Hall.

  It was one of those bright and stifling days that hits you like a high-octane explosion. The air buzzed with traffic noise and chattering conversations. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Office workers and sightseers. Winos and bankers. Politicians and panhandlers. Everyone strolling side by side without a care in the world except how to beat the heat.

  A Chrysler Town & Country Newport powered by a 135-horsepower Spitfire Straight-Eight engine and Fluid-Drive transmission sped around the corner of Washington and Clark Streets. The four-door sedan was a boat of an automobile. Nicely upholstered, comfortable for highway driving, and beautifully built. The Newport was the only wood-detailed hardtop coupe ever produced by Chrysler, featuring a gleaming steel body detailed with hand-framed ash, the kind of car anybody would sell their soul for. At retail, it cost just over four thousand dollars, making it one of the most expensive cars of its time. A true classic.

  The driver of this beauty wore a silly grin and a fedora slanted rakishly over his eyes. He leisurely steered the automobile, one hand draped over the top of the steering wheel and the other fingering the door frame above the lowered window. He blew a wolf whistle.

  I pretended not to hear it. It probably wasn’t meant for me anyway. No one would call me a sex bomb.

  I stepped off the curb, hustling to cross the street before the Chrysler reached my position. It was a dare to see what the driver would do, find out what he was made of, get a better look at his face, and see whether he was a gentleman or a dog.

  The streets of Chicago live by a code. Cars dominate but pedestrians rule. Jaywalking is a source of pride for those who rule the streets since those who avoid jaywalking won’t get anywhere fast. Drivers must obey unless they want to find themselves in the hoosegow for vehicular manslaughter. For me and the man wearing the fedora, it became a war, two kinetic forces drawn together in a contest of wills.

  Hands on hips, I turned and viewed the front bumper straight on. The fedora was no longer slanted. Set back on the driver’s head, it exposed a wide brow and narrow eyelids. He grinned. Pushing pedal to metal, he accelerated from thirty miles-per-hour to fifty, engine roaring and tires screaming. He meant business. His business was yours truly.

  The Chrysler came straight at me. Loose newspapers flapped in the updraft. Hair whipped across my eyes. The sedan swerved on the rim of dime. The right front fender would have clipped me at the knees had the driver not steered left and had I not leapt right. I toppled onto my rump with a jar that rattled my teeth and shattered my dignity, arms thrown back and legs a-tangle. Daylight turned to midnight. Women screamed. Men barked. Time stood still. I saw God.

  I shook my head. Regained my bearings. Registered what had just happened. And dared to open my eyes. The Chrysler had come to a dead stop. The driver was looking curiously down at me through the passenger-side window, making sure I had survived despite his best efforts to mow me down. Then a broad smile swept across his lips and his clear green eyes danced.

  “Homicidal dick!” I shouted at him.

  He whistled a second time, this time with shameless admiration. He respectfully tipped his hat in acknowledgment. Then he sped away, tires burning rubber and rear bumper fishtailing down the street. Filled with rapture, his laughter echoed the distance. E
ight cylinders exploded in a thunderous display of muscle power and masculine conceit. Exhaust fumes swabbed the air. With a final growl, the Chrysler screeched around the corner and headed toward Dearborn Street, to be seen and heard no more.

  I gathered myself together. Everything was in disarray. My purse over there. My shoes yards off. My skirt awry and jacket askew. My head spinning and poise demolished. And my temper boiling.

  A crowd gathered around. No one spoke. All stared. Until a gallant gentleman rushed to my rescue and leaned down. Though his washed-out face was bland, an expression of concern flattened into a hard stare. “Are you all right, Miss?”

  He wore a brown double-breasted jacket, matching knife-edge slacks, brown brogans, striped brown-and-gray tie, and brown felt hat embellished with three feathers fanned in rakish display. Everything had been handpicked with care. He was a fastidious man with an insipid expression. A businessman or banker or stock broker. Pale faced and plain looking. Aspiring no higher than a vice-presidency, a gold watch, and a pension after fifty years of devoted service.

  He reached for my elbow and with a deft motion, hoisted me onto wobbly feet. He brought over my shoes and leant a strong arm as I slipped back into them. Still holding me tightly about the waist, he reached for my purse. His arm was strong. He didn’t want to let go. His sunny eyes were fastened on my profile. He liked what he saw, from my brunette locks to my spectator pumps. My rescuer, my knight in shining armor, my devotee in a brown suit.

  “Who was that man?” he said as he handed over the purse. He wanted to know if he had any competition, so I told him he was my boyfriend. His chin fell. He lowered disappointed eyes to his scuffed brogans.

  I extricated myself from his hold. He reluctantly let go. I brushed off my skirt and straightened my suit jacket. My rescuer kept staring at me, hungry as a celibate friar, his eyes undressing me from beneath the brim of his fedora. I well understood the affect I had on members of the opposite sex, regardless of age or marital status. It had to do with the sylphlike beauty inherited from my mother and the ballsy attitude acquired from my father. As a child, I played on the gritty streets and back alleys of the city, associating with lowlifes and hustlers, looking up to gangsters and criminals, and keeping my eyes wide open, my ears plugged in, and my mouth shut. It made for a tough and independent young lady, probably too tough and too independent. Yet the aristocratic patina remained no matter how strenuously I play it down.

  “He’s not really your boyfriend, is he?” he said, his eyes twinkling.

  “What makes you say that?” I could never tell a good lie since my face always gave me away.

  “If he was your boyfriend, he wouldn’t have whistled at you the way he did. Do you know him? Because if you don’t, he sure as hell knows you.”

  I looked toward the end of the street, the afterimage of the Chrysler lingering like a phantom. I was almost sorry I didn’t know the driver. From the fleeting glimpse I had of him, he seemed like a rogue and a rascal. A handsome one at that, though perhaps a little too showy for my tastes, not to mention his bad manners and wicked laughter. Exactly my kind of guy. “Think so?”

  “Excuse me for being so bold, but are you someone I should know? Because if you are, I wouldn’t mind knowing you better.”

  His eyes matched his suit and complexion, brown and unremarkable. He was one of those steady and dependable types you see every day sitting behind tidy desks. He probably had a plain wife and three spoiled brats at home.

  “Maybe we can have a cup of coffee sometime.” He suggestively lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head towards a diner across the street. “Or now. You look a little shaken up.”

  If I had grown up under a different roof, I could have gone for an average fellow like him. But I liked my men tall, dark, and unpredictable. “You’re sweet, honey,” I said.

  He liked it that I called him honey. It made his day. His eyes brightened like fog lights on a lonely country road. For once he could go home to the wife and kids, content in knowing that he was more than just a pencil pusher grinding through humdrum days and empty nights.

  “As it turns out, I’m meeting someone.”

  “Ah. Meeting someone.” He was dubious. He didn’t like being brushed off. He shook off his disappointment and reached into his breast pocket, handing me his business card. “If you ever change your mind, don’t hesitate. My name’s Mike. Mike Berkowitz.”

  I took the card, thumbed the edge of the crisp white linen, and studied the embossed letters. Michael Z. Berkowitz, Attorney at Law.

  “Criminal law. Might need my services one day. Never know.” He cocked his head toward City Hall. “Ask the mayor. He can vouch for me.”

  “Ah. The mayor. Good friends, me and the mayor.” I crossed my fingers to show him how close.

  He threw up his head and laughed. It was a good-hearted laugh, throaty and charming. He didn’t believe me. He should have.

  “Well,” I said, pointing down the street. “I’m late as it is.” I backed away, toe behind I heel. A pedestrian bumped into me. She cursed me for not watching where I was going. I cursed her for the same thing. She strolled off in a huff. I slid my eyes back toward my attorney friend. He was still smiling at me, and almost drooling. There was nothing more to say. Waving, I tossed him a smile of departure.

  “Wait!” he called after me. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “It’s Iris. Iris Grenadine.”

  “Grenadine. You did say Grenadine?”

  “With a G,” I said.

  “You’re not by any chance related to John Grenadine?”

  “As a matter of fact.”

  “Distant relative?” Behind his eyes lay the hint of wonder along with a trace of dread.

  “My father.”

  “Your … father. He probably doesn’t remember me. But I remember him.”

  “He remembers everybody.”

  He swallowed. “Then be sure to give him my regards.”

  “Sure will.”

  “Have a good day … Iris Grenadine.” He said my name as if it were a piece of candy melting in his mouth. He blanched, embarrassed like a schoolboy. With a nervous smile, he tipped his hat.

  I hustled across the street, never once giving Michael Z. Berkowitz, Esquire, a second thought until days later, when I reflected on how a random street incident could force a woman to take a left turn instead of a right and put her in the high beams of a maniacal killer.

  Chapter 2

  LOCATED OPPOSITE CITY Hall, the Harmon House Hotel was frequented by politicians, wheeler-dealers, local celebs, and classy hookers. Posted just outside, Spiffy Smith blew into his clarinet. The color of India ink slathered the creases of his sweaty neck. The faraway expression of his face radiated with one of those beautiful blue-black complexions of his tribal ancestors. Behind the sunglasses, his scarred eyes were sealed shut. Spiffy lost his eyesight at Guadalcanal, but it didn’t stop him from being one cool cat and a source of invaluable information, which he sold for a price and sometimes a bottle of Scotch. In Paris, Spiffy could have been a popular jazz musician, fêted by the elite and living high. But this was Chicago, and in Chicago, there were only a few ways a Negro—especially a disfigured Negro—could squeeze out a living.

  Curled at his feet, his loyal German shepherd glanced up when I tossed spare change and several dollar bills into the velvet-lined clarinet case. Spiffy broke off at the end of a C-sharp and said, “What’re in a hurry for, Miss Iris?”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  He sniffed my perfume like a hound dog. I laughed and swung through the revolving doors. The bluesy notes of his clarinet chased me into a brass-gilt, red-carpeted, and smoke-filled lobby. Hidden behind potted palms and sunken into leather chairs, hotel guests read the morning papers. Some faces I recognized as regulars and occasional stool pigeons. Others I only knew by name and reputation. Then there were the powerbrokers, members of a not-so-secret club who ruled the city with iron fists and stacks of dough in
exchange for favors and blind eyes. The City of Big Shoulders had been bought and sold several times over. It was the way of life. You either accepted it or left town. Some chose the latter. The corrupt and downtrodden chose the former. The rest made do.

  I unwrapped a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum and folded it into my mouth. The doorman approached and tapped the brim of his cap. “Miss Grenadine. Mr. Kane sends his compliments.”

  I dropped the gum wrappings into an ashtray canister and two bits into the palm of the doorman’s outstretched hand. “Tell him I’ll stop by on my way out.”

  He bowed and swept a hand of invitation toward the elevator bank.

  The white-gloved operator held the door open for me. She closed the elevator cage with a clatter and engaged the power lever. Eyes glued to the floor indicator, I nervously tapped the toe of my high-heeled pump. The pointer swept from L to 22. The cage hummed, rattled, and eventually braked to a stop. The operator opened the doors and whispered, “Twenty-two-o-one.”

  I strolled past doors, guests, luggage, maids, and service carts. Two businessmen tipped their hats as we passed each other. Wearing a towel around wet hair, a stunning young woman peeked into the hallway before stealing back inside. A giggling toddler dashed out of another room, his mom close on his heels. No one was aware of the drama already unfolding in room 2201.

  At the far end of the corridor, the security guard nodded. He was expecting me. I showed him my press credentials anyway. Winking, he pushed open the door. I stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind me. The latch clicked. The room hushed.

  The décor of room 2201 focused on two muted colors: Naples yellow and Delft blue. The accoutrements were typical of high-class hotel rooms everywhere. Cheerful wallpaper. Cozy appointments. Heavy furniture. Tweed carpet. And paintings that depicted sunny landscapes, majestic hillsides, and seaside harbors. Two windows—one shut and the other cracked open—bracketed either side of an armoire. The view faced the river. In the east, the white clock tower of the Wrigley Building indicated half past eleven. Toward the west, the massive Merchandise Mart squatted at the edge of the river. The drone of car engines and distant voices filtered up from street level, along with the rhythmic clatter of an el train heading into the Loop, so named for the el tracks encircling the heart of Chicago’s financial district. That musty smell of all hotel rooms everywhere, even one as posh as this one, permeated the four walls. Other odors were intermixed, including the distinctive stench of something foul.