Case of the Glass Heart

 Chapter Two

Monday, June 30th, 1947. 10:47 a.m. Tampa, Florida.

Mike sat alone upon a hard wooden bench near the back of the Redline Trolly, nursing a cup of strong black coffee. There were fewer passengers than one might expect for a Monday, mid-morning, so finding a seat wasn’t a problem. 

Rumbling along the rickety tracks, heading towards downtown, his coffee nearly spilled, twice. He could have taken a cab. It would have been a faster and perhaps a little smoother ride, however he was broke. Not as broke as he had been 48 hours ago, but the stack of bills Mr. Alonzo had given him, they were all fifties, bills too large to break on a nickel and dime cabbie.

Mike was on his way to police headquarters, to see his cousin, Detective Harry Stafford. He and Harry were like brothers growing up. That all changed when Mike unexpectedly dropped out of the police academy, but that was another story.

Lt. Harry Stafford

The constant clatter of clanking typewriters and ringing telephones played a background tune, as Mike leaned against Lieutenant Stafford’s desk. Harry slapped a piss-warm cup of black sludge meant to be coffee into Mike’s hand as he dropped down into his office chair.

“Thanks. So…how’s it going?” Mike asked, but judging by the slow shuffling drag in his gait and the slouch of his shoulders told the private eye everything. The Lieutenant was tired, he looked overworked, he reminded Mike of his father. The thought and the image made him smile.

“How’re the wife and kids these days?”

Harry narrowed his beady, close-set eyes, scrutinizing Mike. “They’re fine, and I’m busy. So cut the crap Mike. I don’t have time to play around with you today. What do you want?”

Mike flattened his free hand across my heart and faked a hurt expression. “That hurts, cuz. What makes you think I want anything? I mean, can’t a guy just pop in on family to see what he’s up to nowadays?” 

“Sure, normally.” He rubbed his calloused hands across the dark stubble of his rugged face, then leaned forward to snatch the cup of coffee from out of Mike’s hand. “But I know you better than that, Mike Stafford… excuse me. I mean Paladino, right?” He grimaced as he tossed back a swig of coffee. “I hear you stopped straddling that fence you made from your family tree. Going by your grandfather’s name nowadays?”

Mike stated, “It’s Paladin.”

“Paladin, Paladino. Whatever it is, it’s not our family name, now, is it? It’s not Stafford.”

Harry paused as he searched his desk for a pack of Lucky Strikes. “And the only time you come around is when you want something.” He leaned back in his chair and held his arms out. “So, tell me cousin, what is it this time? You need a parking ticket taken care of? Is someone leaning on you? Did you sleep with the mayor’s wife or something?”

Mike glanced down at his shoes, grinning, as Harry continued his accusations.

“Geesh, Mike! Please tell me you didn’t sleep with the mayor’s wife!”

The P.I. stopped smiling. “What? The mayor’s wife? No...” He paused to quickly go over in his mind, his most recent romantic rendezvous. “...no. What’s wrong with you Harry? Of course not.”

Harry set his coffee cup aside and said, “Glad to hear that…” He darted his eyes around the clutter of his desk continuing his search for his cigarettes. He glanced up, giving Mike a stern look. “Because I can’t fix that, Mikey. That’s not a minor mistake that I can just make go away.”

“No, honestly, I just happened to be in the area, and I thought I’d just drop in and see how my favorite cousin was doing. That’s all.”

Harry gave Mike the same doubtful look that his dad used to give him, with one eyebrow arched he questioned. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Mike repeated trying his best to sound genuine and sincere.

Harry let out a breath as he seemed to relax a little. He lifted his hand into the air and nodded his head. “Okay, okay, I am sorry. I’m just a little stressed these days.”

Harry looked a lot like his Uncle Jack, mannerisms, and all. Mike was briefly reminded of how close his father and Harry were. He had turned out just like Jack had hoped Mike would have. An upstanding strait-laced, overworked, underpaid, police detective. 

Giving up on locating the missing pack of cigarettes, Harry fished around in the overflowing ashtray sitting on his disorganized desk and pulled out a half-smoked wrinkled stub of a smoke, Mike watched for a moment in amusement as Harry patted himself down in search of a light.

Mike flipped open his lighter and offered the lieutenant a light. Harry nodded his thanks, as a cloud of white-grey smoke encircled his head. “Everyone is fine, doing good, thanks for asking. Jackie is starting Little League this year.”

After two more puffs, he crushed the cigarette out and smiled. “Ya’ know, it’s been a while, Mike; Lois would love to see you.”

He looked around the station room. “What day is it? Monday, right? Yeah...” He answered his own question. “...She’s making her famous meatloaf tonight, I’m sure there’ll be plenty, I could just call her up...”

Mike thought to himself, he should have billed Alonzo triple for this, as he said. 

“Yeah…hey, that sounds great and all…” Mike had no desire to spend the evening visiting with the Stafford’s, strolling down memory lane, no matter how good Lois’ meatloaf was, he had to nip this quick. “...perhaps another time though cousin. I’m kinda on the clock tonight, I’m working a case.”

Harry slammed his meaty fist down hard atop his desk, sending streams of, now cold, inky, black mud, splashing coffee across what looked to be important papers that were scattered across his desk. He shot up out of his chair and jabbed his index finger at Mike as he exclaimed. “I knew it! I fuckin’ knew it!”

He shook his head. “It's always the same with you, isn’t it? Mom was right.”

Mike backed off a little, not wanting coffee stains on his only good sports jacket. He figured he’d better make nice if he wanted to get any information.

“Harry, Harry, calm down pal.” Mike flashed a salesman’s smile. “Of course, I want to drop by you know how I feel about Lois and Little Jack, and... and...”

What the hell was his daughter's name again?

Harry’s grumpy voice growled “Penny.”

“Penny, yeah, sweet little Penny.” Mike paused for a quick second, wait, what did he mean by ‘mom was right?’ Mike had always thought his Aunt Gladys loved him. 

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, he needed to focus. 

“Look, Harry, I just need a little information, that’s all.” Mike reached out and laid his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It's not for me, okay, it's for a client of mine.”

Harry had calmed down, a little embarrassed by his outburst, drawing the attention of every cop in the detective's room, but Mike could tell he was still disappointed.

Mike didn’t let this window of opportunity pass. “Look, I just need to know if you’ve heard any scuttle about any undercover sting operations going down, regarding any underground casinos in Ybor?”

“Underground casinos in Ybor City huh?” He scratched his scruffy face a few times. “No, not that I’m aware of, definitely not in Ybor, that’s for sure.”

Mike nodded. “You’re positive about this, right?”

After his little outburst, Harry’s eyes scanned the detective’s office from left to right, ensuring that no one was paying any attention to what he was saying. He lowered his head along with his voice. “I’m pretty sure. I mean, the mayor has his hand in a few of the pots down there, and as long as…” He crooked his fingers in the air like quotations. “The… ‘contributions’…continue to pour in, we’ve been told to not look too deep into anything that goes down that way, why? Is there a problem?”

Mike shook his head. “No, no. Nothing too serious, not yet anyway. I’m just tracking down any information that I can about someone possibly skimming profits from a table or two, just trying to see if it’s a rookie vice cop getting in over his head; it doesn’t sound like it though.”

He tossed his fedora onto his head. “Well, Harry, it's always good seeing you, cousin. Thanks for your help pal.” Mike started walking toward the door, he paused and turned and flashed a smile. “Hey, tell Lois I said hello.”

Lieutenant Harry Stafford jabbed his hand and middle finger up in the air as he called out. “You could tell her yourself if you’d ever drop by for dinner, asshole.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Monday, June 30th, 1947. 1:43 p.m. East Tampa, Florida, The Brownstone.

Widow Simmons

“Mike…Mike…Michael Paladin!”  

He’d heard Widow Simmons the first time. Rent was due, again…and as usual, he was behind. Maybe a few months behind. Sure, he had some cash, the advance Hector Alonzo had given him, but that was spoken for. Maggie Sullivan always got paid first.

Mike kept his head down, eyes averted, and climbed the stairs three at a time. He tried to slip down the narrow hallway and into his office before Simmons could catch up. It amazed him sometimes how quick that little old lady could move when back rent was involved.

At the top of the stairwell, he nearly slammed into a short, round man standing in front of his office door, Metro Electric uniform, thick black glasses, clipboard in hand. The man had just slapped a PAST-DUE, THIRTY-DAY Shut-Off Notice to the door. He looked up, smiled like a man who enjoyed his job too much, and waddled off without a word.

Mike tore down the notice and turned just in time to face the landlady.

He pasted on a grin and slid into his sweetest voice. “Oh hey, Ms. Simmons … didn’t see you there.”

She slapped a handful of envelopes to his chest. “Cut the crap, Mike. I know full well you heard me.”

“Was that you calling me? Huh. I didn’t realize.” He couldn’t help thinking he should’ve used the fire escape.

Before she could say another word, Mike took a step back and gave her a slow once-over.

“Ms. Simmons,” he said, letting out a soft whistle, “there’s something different about you. Hair done? New dress? Whatever it is…you look stunning.”

The old bird tried to maintain her stern demeanor and serious facial expression, but Mike could see a tinge of crimson in her cheeks as she blushed. She held back a smile as she smacked the stack of envelopes against Mike’s chest for a second time. “Like I said, Mr. Paladin, cut the crap. You know rent is due, its past due in fact, by several months.”

“I know, I know, and I truly am sorry for the delay, honestly, I’ve just been so busy working on so many cases…. I promise you; you’ll have the rent money by the end of the month...”

She held up her hand, waving the stack of envelopes in front of him. “That is what you told me last month and the month before that.”

The Widow Simmons continued her speech wagging her tiny pointer finger at him as she reprimanded him. “I like you, Mike Paladin, I really do, I always have, your kind and polite, and you’re always willing to help out others in the building, when we’ve needed you. But I can only look the other way for so long.” 

A sad pleading expression enveloped her usual gentle grandmotherly face. “I’ve got bills to pay as well, you know. It’s hard enough, me being a widow on a fixed pension.”

Mike dropped his head in shame, looking down at his shoes nodding his head in agreement, as she continued scolding him. Occasionally He would slip in an “I’m sorry.”  “Yes, Ma’am.” or “I understand.”

“I’m glad that you do understand, Mr. Paladin.” She shoved the stack of envelopes into his hands. “Now, as a show of good faith that you do understand, and that you are indeed going to make some sort of rent payment soon, I need for you to do me a few favors.”

Mike glanced at the envelopes, a thick stack of eviction notices, fortunately for him, none of them had his name on them. “You want me to hand these out to people here in our building?”

She gave me a tender grandmotherly smile followed by a sly conspiratorial wink. “I expect you to enforce them.”

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

It wasn’t much of a place, a small two-room office, a 15 x 30 box on the third floor of an old brownstone riverfront building, Suite 308, built sometime in the late 1800’s. The elevator only worked during daylight business hours, Monday through Friday.

The building itself, along with the surrounding area, was zoned for commercial use, so technically, and legally, Mike wasn’t allowed to be living here, but he managed to do a few favors here and there for Widow Simmons, and she looked the other way.

The irony of it all was that those favors were usually him playing her muscle and kicking deadbeat bums, like him, out the door when they fell too far behind on their rent.

It wasn’t much but it was where Mike Paladin hung his hat, and according to the old saying, I guess that made it home.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Monday, June 30th, 1947. 11:17 p.m.

It had been a long, hot, exhausting, day. Mike’s assistant, Maggie, was out of town caring for her sick mother, so he spent the rest of the day knocking on tenant doors, threatening his neighbors to “Pay up or get out.” The hypocrisy was not lost on him, but what other choice did he have?

The night rain helped to cool the bay area down a bit, it also helped to ward off the mosquitos, Florida’s unofficial state bird.

He thought about going across the street to Luke’s Liquor Store and playing a game of billiards and maybe find a poker game in the back to get lost in, instead, he stayed home, drank some cheap rot gut rye and ate a tin can of beans for dinner and went on to bed.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Tuesday, July 1st, 1947. 2:49 a.m.

A nearby lightning strike jolted Mike from his slumber and after lying on the cot that he kept tucked away in a back room of the office watching the ceiling fan swirling overhead, he gave in and realized tonight was going to be another sleepless night.

he poured another glass of the cheap stuff and leaned out the window, overlooking the liquor store across the street, and smoked a cigarette.

The rain was enough to ward off the tropical heat yet light enough, that it didn’t chase the night life indoors.

Occasionally he would hear the low rumble of a ’39 Buick sloshing down the wet streets or see headlights bouncing off a building below, Mike sometimes wondered where they were going at this time of night. He lazily took a drag from his Camel Straight as he watched a drunkard wobble down the sidewalk below, arm and arm with a painted lady that he found somewhere on a street corner.

Up until Hector Alonzo hired him, three days ago, Mike hadn’t worked on a case in nearly four months and even then, it was a quick nickel and dime job. Some sap cheating on his wife, she paid him a few sawbucks for a few saucy photographs.

Mike Paladin had been in the P.I. racket now, for a little over a year. And it really wasn’t making the bills. His first case involved a cheating wife and an abusive husband. He ended up not paying, he went to jail instead. That seems to have been the trend, he would either feel sorry for a war widow and volunteer his services or he’d get stiffed in the end by the client. And those that did pay, the payday was only a few bucks.

Mike took another swig of the rot gut closing his eyes as the burn coursed through his insides. He took a final drag from his smoke and flicked out into the night, into the rain, feeling sorry for himself. “I’m too dirty for the cops and too clean for the mob, I guess that leaves me somewhere in the middle. A two-bit gun for hire, a good for nothing rent-a-cop.”

His little family reunion down at the police station, hadn’t turned up any leads, he still had more questions than answers. For the time being, he figured for once, maybe the Tampa Police Department actually had their grubby little hands out of this one. 

That left the possibility that maybe the local boys may have caught wind that Alonzo was partnered up with outside talent, and this was them trying to set the old man up for a fall.

There were quite a few locals that resented the Chicago-Tampa Development Company moving in on the bay area. The Chicago boys had bought up a lot of real estate along Westshore, and it was obvious that they planned to stay.

Mike reached out to Carmine Gabori, another cousin, this one on his mother’s side of the family, who played on the other side of the law.

He hadn’t seen Carmine in a while, not since he returned from the war overseas, not since their Pops passed away. Carmine was always an annoying kid, a little troublemaker; Mike recalled that Carmine got young Mike’s ass whooped several times, when they were a kids, “…because of something my idiot cousin had said or done and laid the blame on me.”

To be honest, if he weren’t family, Mike doubted he’d have anything to do with the likes of a guy like Carmine Gabori.

A sad smile etched across his face at the irony as Mike took the last gulp of his drink, thinking that was probably what Harry Stafford thought about him.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~