Phantom Point
by Gary Inbinder
July 1907: Chicago is sweltering, and hard-boiled detective Max Niemand has a hot, new case. A wealthy socialite hires Max to rescue her wayward artist brother from the clutches of a femme fatale and her dubious California artists’ colony. The job is lucrative, with the promise of a large bonus for good results.
Arriving on the West Coast, Max becomes embroiled in a murder case and a fight over oil rights. In the course of his investigation, he encounters hard-nosed cops, gangsters, an Old West marshal, a tycoon, a cagey lawyer, fast cars, faster women and a malevolent gold-toothed hitman. Before long, Max realizes the odds of living long enough to collect his bonus are definitely not in his favor.
Chapter 8: Gil Doyle
Doyle paid attention to his appearance, because he figured in this world appearance was everything. He wanted class, and he believed the old saying, “Clothes make the man.” He had grown up rough in Oakland and on the Barbary Coast where he scrapped for every dollar. When he had enough dollars, he started buying some class.
At one level class, meant material things: expertly tailored clothes; expensive watches and jewelry; an automobile; a swell dame on your arm when you were out on the town. The gestalt of class included style as a necessary element. Style wasn't just the fashionable suit, it was the way you wore it.
He examined his black bow-tie in a wall mirror located in a screened-off section of his roadhouse office. Doyle fussed with the tie until satisfied with the result. Then he retrieved his tuxedo jacket from a hanger dangling from a hook on the wall next to the mirror. He put on the jacket, buttoned it and smoothed the material in front. He turned one way and the other to check how it hung from the sides. Then he came out from behind the screen and walked to a card table set in a back corner of the office. Doyle sat down and resumed an unfinished game of solitaire. He answered a knock on the door with a gruff "Come in," without looking up from the cards.
Duke Placco entered. He dressed like his boss, but Duke had his own peculiar style; it was the manner of a born killer who enjoyed hurting people. Doyle could appear suave; Placco looked brutal regardless of what he wore. "Sorry to bother you, boss. I heard Roxy's back from town."
"Yeah, she's back," Doyle said without looking up from his game. "So what?"
"Did she get anything out of Rogers?"
Doyle played a card and muttered, "Damn." Then he looked at Placco. "No, she didn't."
Placco paused a beat before saying, "Maybe we should try it my way."
"Your way, huh," Doyle said with a wry smile. "Did it occur to you the guy might be an undercover cop?"
"Cops bleed, boss. They can be made to talk. They can disappear without a trace."
"That's swell, Duke. Why don't you go out and buy the ropes so we can hang ourselves and save the state the trouble."
"So what do you want to do?"
"For now, you shadow him like you shadowed Burgess. Try not to be too obvious. I want to know where he goes, what he does, who he sees, including telephone calls and telegrams. Use our usual contacts at the hotel and Western Union office. You report back daily, but don't do anything to Rogers until you square it with me."
"OK, boss. Just one more thing. Do you think Roxy's telling you everything she knows about the guy?"
"What makes you suspect Roxy?" Doyle frowned and narrowed his eyes.
"You know how dames are. Maybe she likes him. Or maybe he offered her more dough than you're paying."
"She won't cross me. Roxy's not that stupid."
"Maybe not. But what if she did?"
"Then I'd give her to you to do with as you please. Now scram."
Placco flashed an evil, gold-toothed grin and left the office.
Doyle watched the thug leave. He shook his head contemptuously and returned to his game.
Copyright © 2022 by Gary Inbinder
