Fat City.. Act One.. The Puzzling Policemen

August 11th 1940.

The first time he saw them roll around the corner onto Jefferson St from Laurel Blvd, he didn’t catch the make of the vehicle, but when they drove up the second time he saw that it was a black 36’ LaSalle. Two thug like mutts were inside and when it pulled to the curb, the one on the passenger side rolled down the window and motioned for him to walk over. He slid his right hand under the raincoat and checked for the snub-nosed .38 revolver as he slowly moved towards the LaSalle. The Passenger, he looked kinda small, thin, frail framed, round wire brimmed reading glasses, thinning gray hair, on closer inspection he looked more like a librarian than a hood.

He listened closely against the sound of raindrops bouncing off of the top of the car, He slowly leaned down.

“ Are you Clive Carew the Private Investigator?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

The small, frail looking man extended his right hand, he offered a black and orange business card between his thumb and forefinger.

“ Come to this address, tomorrow morning at 10:00 am, there is someone that would like to meet you.”

He took the card without looking at it.

“Just like that, huh?”

“Yes Mr. Carew, just like that, they are going to pay you a cool one thousand dollars just to show up and listen for ten minutes.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Don’t be late.” Mr. Spalding wouldn’t appreciate it.”

As the LaSalle pulled back onto Laurel Blvd, he turned up the collar of the raincoat and then looked down at the card before stuffing it into his coat pocket; Prestige Republic Studios: Montgomery Spalding, President. 5516 North Church Rd. he walked in the rain for another block and a half before reaching his Studebaker Champion. He slid into the driver's seat and placed the key into the ignition and gave it a turn, during the whole drive down the ten-mile length of Laurel Blvd he never once gave a second thought to the reason why the president of Prestige Republic Studios would want to talk to him. He pulled into the driveway of the white two-story building that acted as his office and home. He turned off the engine and behind him in the distance he could hear the wailing of police sirens down the rain drenched blvd.

He leaned back in the seat and pulled the card from his coat pocket. Montgomery Spalding, big living, mansions, fancy cars, babes and money. This cat was loaded, so what would cause him such concern that he would require the services of a private dick? The sirens slowly faded away into the rainy night, and Clive Carew got out of the Champion and headed for the front door. He checked the mail slot for messages, there were four pieces of paper, two were from bill collectors, one was from his sister in New Haven and the fourth was written on police stationary from the 8th precinct off of Madison and Chapel streets. He recognized the handwriting to be that of Captain Chet Belleville the note read: “Clive, I need to talk to you as soon as possible, come to the Night Owl Diner on Baker Street tonight at 9:00 pm. Come alone.” it was signed, Chet. He pulled the pocket watch from his trouser pocket. It was only 8:45 pm. Baker street was only four miles away, if he hurried he could still make it.

He pulled up in front of the dingy dive called the Night Owl diner at exactly five minutes before nine pm, through the smoke stained front window he could see the form of Police Captain Chet Belleville sitting in a window booth. Clive Carew entered the diner and motioned to the hostess that the Captain was waiting for him, and she gave him a slight silent nod as she hurried to get coffee from behind the powder blue counter top, her heels clicking across the black and white tiled floors as she hurried along. He slid into the seat directly across from Chet Belleville, who looked up at him nervously.

“Clive! Thank you for coming!” he extended his hand to Clive Carew.

“Chet anything for a friend. So what can I do for you.?”

He sat there for a time, his deep hazel eyes silently staring down at the cold plate of food in front of him, his finger s slowly running through his thinning black hair.

Carew could sense that something was terribly wrong with his longtime friend.

“You know Clive, next month, it’ll be twenty-five years that I’ve spent on this force, from working the streets, four years on vice, twenty-five long years, of doing the right thing, treating people fairly, by the law, doing right by my fellow cops. Working my way up the ladder, doing things by the book. Clive, I have to tell you, I have a real problem on my hands.” he looked at him from across the table.

“Chet.” Clive Carew leaned forward, now looking his friend in the eye. “Tell me a story.”

“Clive.” Chet Belleville’s voice fell into a slight whisper . “ I can’t prove it yet, but my gut tells me that I’ve got some dirty cops in my station. I can’t prove who they are yet, Clive, I need you to do something for me.” his eyes nervously shot back in the direction of the waitress.

“Wait.. Chet. Why do you think you have dirty cops in your station? Start at the beginning.”

The waitress brought them fresh coffee and asked Clive Carew if he wanted anything, which he declined, she walked away, and he leaned back into the conversation. His eyes never leaving Chet Belleville.

“It happened about five months ago. We got a call about an incident out on Plank Road down by the lake. There were shots fired, we were told. We took four squad cars to the site, it was just after seven pm when we got there, three of our boys were already on site. There were two cars all shot up, in a field off to the side of the road, a 38 Packard, and a Plymouth I think it was. Two cars, six bodies, our three boys arrived after the fact, the shooters were long gone. When I arrived, the doors and the trunk lids of both cars were all open. And the six bodies were all still in the cars, both of the trunks were empty and when we searched we couldn’t find any weapons, no weapons, no nothing. Two of the stiff’s in the Packard I recognized, they were two of Frankie Finch’s boys. Well, to make a long story short, I’ve been re-reading through all the reports from that night, and something doesn’t add up."

Clive Carew listened intently as Chet Belleville related the rest of the tale to him.

"Plank Road is six miles outside the city limits, now one of our boys wrote in their report that they didn’t see any other vehicles coming out of Plank rd when they got the call and went to investigate, and another report says that there were three sets of headlights when they were first approaching the scene. The Packard, the Plymouth and the vehicle belonging to the shooters. so I went back to re-read the first report to make sure I got my story straight, and lo and behold, the first report was missing from the jacket. So I go back out to the scene and accounted for every tire track going in and coming out they were all still there in plain sight, I accounted for six squad cars total, and the Packard and the Plymouth, but there were no other tire tracks on the scene to suggest that there was another vehicle. So either the shooters were on foot or somebody is lying about what really happened. and they tried to cover it up by destroying the original report. For the past five months, Clive, I’ve been silently digging through all of this, and I’m getting nowhere fast.”

He stopped to study the demeanor of Clive Carew before passing him a plain brown manila envelope. Clive looked down at it and then back up at Chet Belleville, who was leaning forward now.

“Clive, this is where I need your help, these are two pictures of the hoods that worked for Frankie Finch down at The Palace. Now everybody knows that Frankie Finch isn’t legit, and he has mob connections all over the place, and I can’t be seen poking around down there, everybody knows me, they know I’m a cop, and they’ll never talk, not with me around. But maybe you, Clive, they may spill their guts to you. I need you to go poking around the Palace and see what you can dig up on these two mugs. Maybe if you can find out what was in the trunks of those two cars, I can figure this whole thing out.”

Clive Carew lit a cigarette and sat back in his seat as he opened the envelope. slowly he removed the photographs and began to study them. He tapped his forefinger across the face of one of the photos.

“Seen him before. I think his name is Bobby Wheeling, two bit hood that hangs around the Coconut Grove sometimes, seen him talking to some of Vito Mancini’s boys.” Clive told him.

“Friends maybe?”

“No, based on first impression’s the encounters that I witnessed were all business. that’s the way it looked from where I was sitting.”

Now both men leaned back in their seats, more puzzled than ever. Clive Carew shot a suspicious glance at Chet Belleville.

“At a glance, do you want to know what I think, Chet?”

“Oh do indulge me m’boy.” He answered.

“Vito Mancini and Frankie Finch are rivals, but maybe some of their boys were doing business together on the side, and maybe some of YOUR boys walked in on them while they were doing that business, and maybe they decided to do a little business of their own.”

Chet Belleville was staring at him.

“Clive, my friend , that is exactly what I need to find out.”

“I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow after my meeting with Montgomery Spalding. Down at PRS .”

Chet’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Montgomery Spalding, the movie mogul?”

“Yeah, he’s giving me a cool grand just to show up and hear what he has to say.”

Chet Belleville paid for his coffee and for the cold, uneaten meal, and both men left the diner for greener pastures. Clive Carew’s life was about to get interesting.

~Scratch A.B.T copyright © 2009~