Twin Cities Noir

“I have it,” she said, closing it.

“You know,” I said, “this neighborhood isn’t exactly safe for a pretty girl like you, dressed to the nines.”

“I can take care of myself.” She glared, clutching her handbag.

“I’ll bet you can, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your belongings. I never was a purse snatcher.”

She looked into my face. “Wait a minute. You’re Jake Kane, aren’t you?” Her voice mellowed, “I’ve come to see you.”

“I’m Kane. How do you know who I am? And how did you know I was here?”

“The whole town knows you’re here. Someone with your reputation doesn’t come into St. Paul unnoticed.” She took a copy of the Pioneer Press from under her arm. There was my picture plastered on the front page. The headline read, Former T-Man Killer Freed After Four Years. The photo wasn’t very flattering. It was the mug shot they took when I was arrested in Tampa.

I shrugged. “What do you want to see me about?”

“We can’t talk here.” She looked in the window where Izzy was still bargaining with the tuba player. She thought a second. “I have an apartment at the Commodore. Meet me in the bar in an hour, and try to look more presentable.” I guess my work clothes bothered her.

She turned on her heels, put up her collar, and opened her umbrella, which immediately turned inside out again. I heard her curse under her breath.

I watched her walk to her car. I liked the walk and I liked the car—a brand new, fire-engine-red Duesenberg convertible sedan.

Whoever this blonde was, she had dough, living at the Commodore and driving a new Duesy.

The tuba player came out, minus his horn, and I walked in.

I told Izzy about my encounter with the dame and described her to him. “Do you know her?”

“Where would an alter kocker like me meet such a hotsy-totsy woman like you give a picture of? Listen,” his voice shifted. “You have to be careful. Whatever this maydel wants could mean tsuris. Big trouble.”

I nodded and went in the back to change into something “more presentable.”

“You look like a mench,” Izzy said when I returned. “But you ain’t dressed yet.” He handed me a Luger. “It’s loaded. I’m sure you remember how to use one.”

“Thanks, Uncle.”

I took off my jacket, slipped on the shoulder holster he gave me, checked the action on the Luger, nodded, and set it in the holster.

“You ain’t going to catch a cab in this weather,” Izzy said, pointing to the rain-snow mix. “I’ve got an Overland coupe out back. It’s ten years old, but it runs.” He tossed me the keys.

The Commodore was a chic apartment hotel up on Western and Holly in the exclusive Summit neighborhood. Over the years the hotel hosted famous and infamous clientele—Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda, Al Capone, the Barker gang, and a gaggle of other celebrities.

I walked up the steps, through the courtyard, and into the lobby. The bar was to my left. It was a grand- looking place, decorated in the Moderne style. Glass mirrors and chrome sparkled throughout. A bartender in a white shirt and black bow tie stood behind the small but luxurious bar mixing a cocktail in a shaker. Off to the side a group of happy drunks were gathering around a small piano, giving out with a dirty version of the song, “If I Could Be with You One Hour Tonight.”

The place was intimate enough for me to spot the blonde at a small glass table at the back of the room. She was dressed in a blue silk dinner number, ankle length, cut high in the front and low in the back. It did nothing to hide her lush figure. I had been right when I guessed it had to be swell under her fur wrap.

I said hello and started to sit, but she pointed to the singers and said, “It’s too noisy here. Come up to my apartment in ten minutes—number 402.” She stood and left.

I stopped at the bar and ordered a scotch, my first drink since I left Leavenworth. The singers had switched to “Let’s Do It.” It was kind of nice just watching people have fun.

I finished my drink and went up to her apartment. She opened the door at my first knock. I pushed past her, Luger in hand, in case this was a setup. I checked the place over. When I was satisfied we were alone, I turned to her. “Okay, baby, spill. Start with who you are and what this is all about.”

She blinked her dark blue lamps and said, “My name is Claire Blake, Mr. Kane, and I need your help.” And tears began to flow.

I handed her my handkerchief, led her to a settee, and sat beside her. “Tell me about it.” What guy isn’t a sucker for a beautiful dame with tears in her eyes?

She wiped the tears away and looked at me. “I heard you’ve come back to town to settle a score with Tom Macintyre.”

I didn’t answer her, so she continued. “Macintyre is a dangerous man. You could get killed.”

“Why should you care what happens to me?” I asked.

“Because I know what Tommy Macintyre did to you. The whole town knows. What they don’t know is what he did to me.”

Through sobs she revealed her story.

Just a small-town girl, she had come to the big city to be a singer. Not much different than others with the same dream. She ended up working for Macintyre as a hostess in his club. When Tommy found out she could sing, he gave her a break.

“But there were strings,” she said. “I don’t love him; I don’t want to be known as Tommy’s bim. But…”

“But what? Are you telling me that Macintyre wouldn’t let you sing unless you slept with him?”

“Yes, he made it clear that it was part of the deal.” She lowered her eyes as if she were ashamed.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“It’s true—I swear.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t believe me.” More tears. “Look, Mr. Kane. I may not be a virgin, and I might be ambitious, but Tommy Macintyre owns me. I am so afraid of him. I’ve an offer for a radio contract in New York, but he won’t let me go. He told me he’d kill me if I ever left him.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Everyone knows you’re gunning for him. But he’s dangerous. I can distract him and maybe you can take care of him. It’s to both of our advantage.”

“What if he kills me first?”

“I have a friend to back the play.” The tears were gone and she was all business. “He wouldn’t dare go up against Tommy alone, but with you…”

“Who’s your friend?”

“You can meet him tonight. Come out to Tommy’s club, The Rose of Tralee, around 8. If you need money, I can pay you.” She took a roll out of her purse as big as a grapefruit.

“If this isn’t enough…”

“I don’t need to be paid for what I’m going to do,” I said, pushing the roll back at her. “Looks like Tommy’s been generous,” I added.

“Material things. A girl needs more,” she breathed softly.

“How much more, baby?”

She smiled. Next thing I knew she was in my lap, her arms around my neck, and her tongue down my throat.

I picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. She whispered, “Fuck me,” a phrase that you didn’t hear from nice girls, but I hadn’t been with a nice girl since Mary Agnes Murphy back in 1917 before I joined the army. I must have made some impression on Mary Agnes, because when I was in France, she became a nun.

I had known bad girls from Paris to Havana. And Claire was definitely a bad girl. She made love like an alley cat—the scratches on my back would hurt for days. It was a great ride, especially since I’d been without for four years.

We went at it a couple more times and when it was over, I said, “You were swell, baby. I like the way you move.”