Barry Trentch: Private Eye

I was at the office late, finishing up some paper work, when she walked in the door. She was a beautiful dame, with the finest pair of legs I've ever seen, eyes like glittering emeralds, and hair that flamed like the Chicago fires. Redheads are nothing but trouble.

"I need your help. My husband's missing."

Of all the second-rate detective offices in this town, she had to walk into mine. "How long has he been missing for?"

"Three days. I'm afraid that he may have been…"

"Murdered?"

She nodded. I offered her a cigarette. She refused; I lit one myself. I took a heavy drag on it, and then sipped my whiskey.

"How do you know that he's in trouble? Maybe he just ran off with some young blonde for a couple of days."

She tossed her hair. "He wouldn't. And just before he disappeared I saw him talking with this tall fat guy with a gold tooth and a small oriental guy--"

"You mean Asian. Rugs are oriental." This broad was all looks, no brains.

"Well I don't know, he was a funny looking chink."

I knew those goons, all too well. That's Tony the Crusher and Franky the Shark--they work for Joey DeFazio. Tony's called The Crusher cause they say he can crush a man with his bare hands. It's not too smart to mess with those guys. The last time a dame got me mixed up with Joey DeFazio I wound up with a bullet in my gut and a broken heart. But my bookie was calling every day, and he didn't leave me with much of a choice.

"He hang out with those guys a lot?"

"I don't know . . . not that I've seen. But I don't watch his every move, you know?"

"What do you do, Mrs.."

"Byrne. June Byrne."

"June, can I fix you a drink?"

"No, thank you. I'd prefer if we kept this on a professional basis, Mr. Trentch."

"You haven't gone to the police with this?"

"No, I . . . don't want to get Nick in trouble if he's still alive. I don't know what he's mixed up in, but I'm sure it's illegal."

"You don't have any idea what sort of activities he was involved in?"

"No, none, I just know that he got a lot of strange phone calls, had to go out at odd hours. He wouldn't say what he was doing--he said it was better I didn't know."

"And those were the only two shady characters you ever saw him talking to?"

"Yes. Please, do you think you could find him?"

When she leaned forward like that I could see right down the front of her shirt. I put out my cigarette, and sipped my whiskey.

"Fifty bucks a day. Plus expenses."

She nodded. "Anything to find him."

* * *

I knew a pool hall in town where a lot of low-lifes that sometimes pull jobs for Joey DeFazio waste their time. That is where I headed the following afternoon. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw one of his worms. Before the scum even noticed me, I had him pinned face-first to the wall.

"What can you tell me about Nick Byrne, jackass?"

"Nick Byrne? I never heard of no--" I twisted his arm. "Oh, oh, Nick Byrne, right right, whaddya want to know?"

"Which one of you punks killed him?"

"Killed him? Why would we want to--"

Nice guy that I am, I flattened his nose without charging him a plastic surgery fee.

"Don't mess with me, I know he was dealing with some friends of yours."

"Alright, alright man, just chill out, I'll tell you the truth."

"I'm listening," I said without softening my grip.

"The thing is, he owed us some money, screwed up on some business deals. We were about to put a hit on him. But somebody else beat us to it."

I gave his face an extra flattening. "What?"

"I'm telling you man, somebody beat us to it. I'm tellin' the truth!"

"Who? Who else would've done it?"

"I don't know, man, that's all I know, man. That dude was crazy."

I gave his whole body a slam.

"If you're lying I'll fucking--"

"It's the truth! The truth!"

I released him and blew out of that sleazy joint. Back on the street again, I paused. I was all out of leads. I needed a drink. I stepped around the corner to a bar I knew.

"A whiskey on the rocks, John."

"There you go, Barry. Having a rough day?"

"You could say that. Just lost my only lead on a new case."

"Too bad."

"That's the way it goes."

There were a few other guys in the bar, no one really talking much--just the way I liked it. I kept thinking about that redhead, with those long, long legs, and where her legs came together…. Someone switched the news on. I ordered another whiskey.

"And less ice this time, John. You know me."

There had been a big crime bust in the business world. Some important CEO got caught embezzling money, and a whole hierarchy of corruption was being uncovered. It looked like the story was going to be big, about as big as the breasts on that redhead. Otherwise the news was pretty slow. An old woman had been robbed, the Yankees had won, and tomorrow would be sunny and warm, high 70.

I decided to head over to the bar where most of the betting went down in town and see what was shaking--not just to check on the races, but also to see if I could scratch up any dirt on Nick. I figured, if my bookie was about ready to kill me over what I owed, maybe Nick could have run into similar trouble. It was worth a shot.

I walked in, nodded to the fellas that I knew, and got an idea of what was going on with the races: terrible. The case with this redhead was just deepening my bad luck streak. After hanging around for a while, I saw the man I was looking for. Eddy worked there, kept good tabs on what was going on, and would help a guy out with some information in exchange for a little extra dough.

When he passed by I gave him the nod: "You got a minute?"

He took me into the back office.

"What can I help you with?" he asked me.

"I was wondering if you know anything about this guy--Nick Byrne."

"Nick Byrne. Sounds familiar." He flipped through some books. "Yeah, the guy places bets here all the time. His bookie's Crenshaw. Owes him loads of dough."

"Loads, huh? I bet Crenshaw gives them a pretty hard time when they don't pay up."

"Yeah, he knows how to rough 'em up." He leaned forward suspiciously. "What're you gettin' at?"

"Detective work, private detective work Eddy." I flipped him a few bills and turned to leave.

"Hey, I'll tell you something else I know about the guy--for the right price."

"Oh yeah, whaddya got?"

"He's involved with some shady dealings the other side of town. Got somethin' to do with that string of car thefts. What're you investigating him for?"

I threw some more dough at him and turned to leave.

"He's dead."

* * *

The dame and I had agreed to meet at my office at eight that night. When I got there, she was already waiting for me. She looked even better than she had last night. Her skirt was shorter and her shirt was lower. I put my arm around her to lead her into my office, but she shook it off.

"Make yourself comfortable," I told her. "Can I get you a drink?"

"What have you found out?"

I took my time going over to the cupboard and pouring myself a whiskey.

"You're sure you don't want anything?"

"No thank you, please, just tell me what you know."

I sat down at my desk, and lit a cigarette.

"June, your husband is dead."

Her face was blank. "I knew it. I knew that if he was alive I would have heard from him by now. I . . . I'll have a bit of that whiskey now." I poured a little bit into a glass, and she threw it back like it was water. "Who did it? Was it those guys that he was talking to?"

"It wasn't those guys. I don’t know yet who it was, but I do have some leads."

"So do I. I have a lead too. I think he could've been involved in that business scandal. I mean, there's this scandal that just came out--"

"Yeah, I saw it on the news. But what makes you think your husband would have been involved in it?"

"Well he knew some of the guys involved. He used to have them over for dinner…." She toyed distractedly with her glass. "And then they used to talk for hours in a private room . . . and sometimes they'd argue . . . I never knew! I thought they were respectable. They wore suits, had families." She started to cry. "Something must have gone wrong, just before they were exposed, and they must have . . . they must have done it to him. They must have killed him." I wouldn't count on it. Was there any crooked racket in the whole city that this guy wasn't involved in? I was beginning to lose track of the number of people that would have wanted this guy dead.

She looked up at me. "That must have been what happened, huh?"

"I really can't say. I have a few leads to look into."

"A few leads? What do you mean? You mean there might be other--"

"June, let's just say that you husband was about as squeaky clean as a pile of dog shit."

She stared at me. "What? Don't talk that way about . . . what? What are you talking about?"

"I've uncovered all sorts of shady dealings on your husband's part. Gambling debts, auto theft, not to mention the gang connection."

"The bastard. I knew he was up to no good. That bastard. And he never had any money to spend on me."

"Have you gone through any of his things at your house? Papers in his desk drawers?"

"I . . . no I . . . never even thought of it." Like I said, this dame was all looks, no brains.

"Well why don’t you go home, and see what you can find. He's gotta have some record of these activities. I'll call you tomorrow, to see what you found."

She left--half sad, half angry--leaving the scent of her perfume behind. I stayed in the office for a while, sipping my whiskey, and looking over my notes. It got late, and nothing was making any sense anyway, so I pulled on my coat and hat, and trudged down the stairs into the street.

I hadn't gone more than a block or two, when something hit me, hard, on the head. Before I could scramble to my feet, I was pulled into an alleyway, and had an 800-pound gorilla using my spine as an accordion. I tried to get a few swings in, but most of the time I was seeing three of him.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." He gave me one last kick and left. When I came to I found myself lying in a pool of blood, broken glass, and vomit. All the clues began to swirl around in my mind, and that was when I knew--this case wasn't worth the trouble.

* * *

The redhead walked into my office with her high heels clacking and a box full of papers in her arms, which she immediately dropped when she saw how beat up I was.

"Oh my god, what happened to you?"

"Well," I took a drag on my cigarette, "whoever didn't like your husband, doesn't like me too much either." "You mean you got beat up… for me?"

"I, well, yeah. You could say that."

"Oh that's so brave! I feel so terrible."

"Well, actually, I wanted to talk to you in person because--"

"That rat!" She stamped her foot and gestured towards the paper scattered on the floor. "He was so crooked! It's a wonder he didn't get shot sooner!" She sat down and started to cry. "And I . . . I found pictures of him with another woman! I don't even care what happened to him anymore." That was a relief, because neither did I.

"There, there, doll," I put my arm around her. "Let's go buy you a drink somewhere."