Case of the Glass Heart

 Chapter One

Saturday, June 28th, 1947; Tampa, Florida

It was a typical Suncoast summer night in the sunshine state. The sweltering air blew off the gulf stream, clinging to a man’s skin, embracing him like a lonely, desperate, lover. It was the kind of night that made a man wonder why he’d want to live in a place like this, let alone why anyone would ever consider building a city at the edge of a swamp.  

A well-built man in his mid-thirties stood under a flickering streetlight on a cracked sidewalk in front of the three-story brownstone he called home, waiting for a cab.

Dressed in a smoke grey three-piece suit, made of Palm Beach cloth, a lightweight blend designed to keep men cool in tropical climates.

The night was thick with mosquitoes buzzing his ears, causing him to adjust his fedora several times. In the distance, a colony of tree frogs chirped, singing for their supper, joined in chorus by the occasional croaking of a lonely alligator lurking somewhere in the Hillsborough River looking for love.

This was Mike Paladin’s home, the city on the bay, Tampa Bay.

This wasn’t how he initially planned on spending his Saturday night. There was a poker game going on somewhere, without him.

Mike had received a call from a man claiming to be an old friend of his grandfather’s. The old man sounded worried. Flipping through the Rolodex inside his head, a name flickered up from memory: Hector Alonzo.

He remembered Pops and Alonzo doing business back in the day. He muttered, half to himself, “The last time I saw Mr. Alonzo was the day we’d put Pops in the ground.”  

Hector Alonzo had requested a meeting with Mike Paladin.

In the middle of the night.

In the backstreets of Ybor City.

Alone.

He hadn’t said why, just that it was urgent. And since Mike was currently broke and in need of some cash, he figured he had more to gain than he had to lose.

A late-night taxi ride and a couple of left turns later, he found himself standing in a dark, wet, cobblestone lined alleyway at the backdoor of Alonzo’s Premium Cuban Cigar Imports, thinking to himself,

‘What could possibly go wrong?’

 Stella Moreno

A curly-haired brunette greeted Mike at the backdoor with a pouty smile. Her skin was cocoa brown, and she spoke with a soft Latin accent. “So, you’re the gumshoe the boss was telling me about, hmmm?”

She gave him a once over with her hazel brown eyes, then turned on a heel and ushered the private detective down a long, narrow hallway.

“For some reason, I thought you’d be bigger.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I get that a lot, sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart.”

She had a plump round face, thick ruby red lips, and a little mole on her left cheek. As Mike followed behind her, his baby blues trailed the length of her body. Her sleeveless, black satin evening dress held her curves in a death grip, straining the seams with each rhythmic sway of her hips, not a panty line in sight. Not the type of dress you’d think you’d find a gal wearing in the back of a cigar factory. She was, in a word, stunning.

 Hector Alonzo

The permeating aroma of gin, sweat, and cigars danced around the place as she led Mike through a smokey dimly lit back room at the end of the hallway. 

Stopping, she turned and gestured a sweeping hand as she opened the door to what Mike presumed was Mr. Alonzo’s office. “The boss will see you now, handsome.”

An elderly, kind-faced Cuban male stood in front of a cluttered mahogany desk in a tailored white suit. He stood at that forgettable in-between height ... just enough to look up to, but not down on.

A halo of silver hair ringed his balding head. 

He had a wide, toothy-grin on his face. 

His lips were thin beneath an even thinner black mustache. 

He gave the woman a curt nod. “Thank you, Stella.”

She winked invitingly at Mike, a slight smirk teasing one corner of her equally inviting mouth as she backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Mike smiled to himself, wondering if she’d noticed him looking her up and down.

Of course, she had.

The braided gold chain hanging around Hector Alonzo’s neck appeared to almost glow in contrast to his coppered skin.

When he spoke, his voice was raspy yet cheerful, “Mikey! Good to see you, my friend. Come in, come in.”  

He spread his arms wide as he greeted Mike, as if intending to give him a hug. Instead, they engaged in a firm handshake. Standing there before him, the old man brought back memories of Mike’s childhood, of hot summer nights spent with his Pops, watching him and this man drinking gin and playing dominos into the long hours of the night.

He instantly liked the old guy. “Evening, Mr. Alonz...”

He interrupted Mike with a rapid shake of his head. “You make me feel old, Mikey. Please, call me Hector.”

Mike offered a respectable smile as he nodded. “Hector, of course, forgive me.”

Hector crossed the room to a bar area tucked away in a corner. Removing a gold and glass decanter set, he lifted it slightly in Mike’s direction. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Mike gave a single nod. “I’ve never been known as the guy who turned down a free drink.”

The older man chuckled. “And what are you drinking these days?”

“Scotch, the cheap stuff... that is, unless it’s on the house.”

Again, Hector chuckled warmly. “Of course, of course.”

He pointed to the ceiling with his free hand as he poured them both a drink. “You remind me of your grandfather,” he said, then paused as if lost in a private memory. “Ernesto Paladino was a good man… And a dear friend.”

Hector replaced the decanter’s crystal stopper, then walked the lowball glasses back to his desk. Mike noted a slight limp as the man walked, favoring his right leg as he approached. 

He lifted his right arm, indicating the overstuffed, red velvet high back chair facing his desk. “Sit,” he said, setting down the generous three-finger pour of Macallan scotch, and crossing back around to lower himself onto a second, matching velvet chair. “Please, Mikey, make yourself comfortable.”

Mike caught a hint of sadness in Hector’s dark eyes, even through his slight smile. His voice softened. “Your grandfather and I go way back. We were close friends, Ernesto and me. You know…We were rumrunners during the dry times.” 

This was how the old timers referred to the Prohibition Era, the dry times.

Mike lifted his glass in a salute to his grandfather’s memory. “He told me plenty of stories of those times, yes.”

The elder gentleman sipped at his scotch and continued his stroll down memory lane. “The last time I saw you,” he said, pointing his drink at the detective, “...was at Ernesto’s funeral. And if I am not mistaken, you were making ready to ship out overseas to go fight Nazis.”

Mike sat down and balanced his fedora on a knee. “Yes, I remember. I guess it has been about six years now.” He sipped and savored the smooth distinctive smoky flavor of a fine-aged scotch.

“I’m assuming you didn’t invite me here just to share some expensive scotch and hear war stories or reminisce about the old days you and Pops had. What can I do for you Mr..... Hector.”

That toothy grin found its way back onto Hector’s face. He leaned forward, set his drink on the desk, and clasped his hands. “Just like your grandfather, straight to business, I like that in a man.”

“Listen, Mikey…” He stopped abruptly, a finger pointing casually in Mike’s direction. “Can I call you Mikey? Or should I address you more formally, as Mr. Paladino?”

Mike smacked a pack of Camel Straights against his open palm and slipped a cigarette between his lips.  “Mister Paladino was Pop’s name. Mike is fine.” He flicked his lighter and touched the flame to the tip of his smoke.

The aging Cuban’s demeaner shifted curiously. There was something in his eyes Mike couldn’t quite read. His smile disappeared like an apparition, then reappeared again as if forced against its will. “Well…Mike…I have heard that you rent your ‘skills’ out for services.”

Mike took a draw from his cigarette and studied Hector’s features as the initial ease of the moment turned decidedly professional, seeking a better read on the man, and the matter at hand.

Hector leaned in closer across his desk, as if preparing to impart a secret. His coffee-colored eyes darted side to side, alert and cautious as though he expected a hired goon to jump out from behind the bookshelf or from behind the drawn curtains. “And, Mikey, I am in need of such services, at the moment.”

“Be careful of what you hear these days.” Mike warned as he exhaled through pursed lips. Grey-white smoke streamed lazily from one side of his mouth and encircled his head. “Exactly what ‘skills are we talking about’? And what services are you in need of?”

Mr. Alonzo leaned back at last into his overstuffed chair. “As you know Mikey, I am a businessman. As such, I am engaged in several lucrative business ventures.”

The private detective couldn’t resist; he twirled his finger, gesturing around the plush office. “Yes, I hear the cigar import business has been very profitable for you.” 

The comment may have carried more sarcasm than intended, but Mike stayed his course. “But I don’t see what that has to do with me…or my skills.”

Alonzo’s toothy grin returned in a flash, however disingenuous. “Come now Mikey, you’re playing coy with me.” With an innocent shrug, he raised his hands. “I am sure a man of your skillset knows perfectly well that I operate an underground casino out of my cigar factory.”

Mike sat there, straight-faced, enjoying the man’s expensive scotch, and played along acting as though it was all old news to him; however, this was the first time Mike Paladin had ever heard any of this. 

He had rightly suspected that a man like Hector Alonzo would have his hand in a few ‘not exactly legal’ ventures, sure, but until today he hadn’t known what they were.

Alonzo leaned forward across his desk speaking in a half-whisper. “And I assume you also know I have, shall we say, well-connected partners in this venture.”

Mike flicked ash into the crystal ashtray sitting on a side table, squinting slightly as he watched him. His body language and hushed tones said far more than his words. Something had spooked the old man. Something had gotten under his skin.  

Alonzo dipped his chin, fixing his eyes on the gumshoe. “Mike…I suspect that someone, possibly one of my employees, has been skimming money from my tables. Money that isn’t exactly…mine.”

Mike noted the tinge of concern, possibly even fear crawling across Alonzo’s face. He took another sip of his drink, then set the tumbler down beside the ashtray. “Let me guess. These business partners of yours…bent noses, shifty eyes? Hailing from New Jersey? New York? Possibly Chicago?”

Alonzo’s hands became animated as he spoke “Yes, yes! Associates from the Windy City. Men who are not as understanding or forgiving as one would hope.” 

He leaned back into his chair, his index finger uncurling from around the glass tumbler he wagged softly in Mike's direction. 

“Which is where you come in. I need for you to find out who it is that’s stealing from me, well...stealing from my business associates.”

Mike took another drag from his cigarette and tapped the ash from its glowing tip as he tossed around inside his head all the possible things that could go south when dealing with the Chicago mob. 

He snorted softly, scrunching his lips to one side. “Sounds like a bunch of real swell guys.” 

He continued, while running a finger across the rim of his fedora. “Doesn’t really sound like something a wise guy should get involved with.”

Mike took a sip, let the scotch burn its way down. This wasn’t just a job. It was a gamble, and the house was run by guys who didn’t believe in second chances.

Mr. Alonzo stood up and walked around his desk. “Mikey, I am desperate. I know for a fact that you’re a stand-up guy and that I can trust you.”

Mike glanced at an oil painting hanging on the far wall. A little girl was playing in the waves on some beach. 

He wished he were there as well. 

Whether out of nostalgia or family loyalty, Mike couldn’t look his Pop’s old business partner in the face and say no, that he wouldn’t take the case, that the old man would have to find another chump willing to stick his neck out, or that he’d have to figure this one out on his own.

Alonzo leaned against his desk; he could read Mike’s face like the Sunday Funnies. “Mike…. the last person who shorted these guys…. their families were never heard from again.”

The detective’s silence was speaking volumes, this wasn’t something Mike wanted to get involved with.

The elderly Cuban began pleading. 

This proud man. 

Mike’s grandfather’s dearest friend was nearly begging. “I’m an old man, Mikey. I’ve made my decisions; I make no excuses for myself. Please, It’s not me that I’m concerned for, in all honesty. It’s my granddaughter’s safety that I am worried about.”

Maybe it was the expensive booze, or the fond childhood memories of Alonzo and Pops back in the old days, perhaps Mike was deeply touched by the innocence of that little girl there in the painting, hell maybe he was just going soft. 

He crushed out his cigarette and exhaled slowly, telling himself he’d probably regret this. “So, what is it that you want from me? You want me to protect your granddaughter? I’m not a very good babysitter.”

Mr. Alonzo’s brown eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope, as he spread his arms wide. “No, no, nothing like that, Mikey! I just want you to find out who the skimmer is.”

His toothy grin returned to his kind aging face. “That’s it, that is all, I need the skimmer identified and stopped before my associates in Chicago discover what has happened. Simple as that.”

Mike nodded, more to convince himself than Hector. “It does sound simple enough.”

The private eye ran through his head the most likely scenarios. 

“Who knows,” he stated. “This skimmer might be working for another outfit, a local boss perhaps, one who isn’t too keen on the idea of you palling around with these Chicago boys.”

He took another sip of scotch as another thought came to him. “Then again, you never know,” he turned his palm up. “It could be an undercover vice cop, looking to make a name for themselves downtown.”

Mike was running short on cash and on time, he hadn’t had a case or a payday in months. He was behind on the rent, his charming smile and brilliant baby blues were no longer working on the landlady, he had more to gain than he had to lose.

Mike stated. “I know a few people down at the police station, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt too much to ask around and see if your cigar factory is on anyone’s radar downtown.”

Mr. Alonzo smiled, as he placed his hands over his mouth and tossed an air kiss at Mike. “Bless you, Mikey, and thank you.”

Mike raised his hand up, cautioning Hector, he wasn’t sticking his neck out as a courtesy, this was purely business. “How about we save the gratitude for when the job’s over.”

 With coat and fedora in hand, Mike stood. “My regular rate’s twenty-five a day...” Mr. Alonzo extended his hand in an offered handshake, to seal the deal. Before Mike accepted, he added. “...However, for something this volatile, we’re looking at double that, plus legal fees, and expenses.”

Hector Alonzo withdrew his hand and frown. He paused for a moment, as if he were doing the math in his head, then exclaimed, “Fifty dollars a day!” 

Mike could see on the old man’s face that this was faked outrage, after all he didn’t have many options here. 

He thrust out his hand as that now familiar toothy grin reappeared. “Just like Ernesto, you drive a hard bargain, Mikey...deal!”