Chapter 8

The more I thought about the sex tape with Phillip and Cassandra, the more dubious I became of an international scheme that involved the State Department. It didn’t pass the smell test.

Perhaps that insight would serve me well when subpoenaed to testify in The Hague before the International Court of Justice. “Your Honors, it didn’t pass the smell test.”

“Ah. Thank you for enlightening us, Ms. Jennings.”

The invitation-only poker game is in the basement room off the Wrigley back alley speakeasy on the second and fourth Saturday night of the month. Every month, every second and fourth Saturday.

Seven-card stud, raises are limited to $10.

Once in a while Mayor Tom Lynch sits in. He’s given the amount of deference due to the mayor of a large city who’s in Gene Austin’s poker game -- none.

The mayor wasn’t in attendance the night four guys burst in, three of them brandishing semi autos, and robbed us.

They’d picked a good night, two poker tables with 13 players in all. You buy chips when you sit down. And when you need more. So the house cash was in one place.

That was a little over $4,000. But the real money was in billfolds around the tables. Billfolds and my purse.

The four thugs weren’t nervous, more businesslike than anything. I felt a little tummy flutter, but wasn’t really worried. This wasn’t a bunch of hyped up punks. Nor terrorists. It seemed like just a straightforward urban robbery.

I considered judo-flipping the one nearest me and shooting the others in the brisket with his gun. But I don’t know how to judo-flip Mindy, let alone a two hundred pound man in a Groucho Marx mask.

So I concentrated on what they’d tried to teach me at the Police Academy -- observation.

All four had generic black sneakers. Sort of like they were in uniform.

Like the other players, I had my hands on the green baize table in front of me. In plain sight.

All four wore jeans too. Long sleeved work shirts, so no visible ink. None of them had spoken; the leader just gestured with his gun. The shortest guy, around my height, stuffed the house money into a gray gym bag. Then he went around the table collecting wallets. And one purse.

Gene’s daughter, Cathy, was at school -- Michigan -- and I was glad she wasn’t here. She’s feisty and would be enraged that someone was robbing her family’s place.

They left as silently as they came.

We hit our cells the second the door closed. No one was stupid enough to follow the robbers. They hadn’t bothered to tell us not to. Pretty professional on both ends of the guns.

Daddy answered and I said, “Four guys knocked over Gene’s poker game. White, 5’ 8” to 6’ 1” armed with three semis. No shots, no injuries.”

The first on the scene: Bulldog Bannerman. He knew every man in the room. And me.

He placed a tape recorder on the table, Bulldog would have a tape recorder, wouldn’t he? He pointed to George Eugene Randolph who had played football for the Army during the Korean conflict. Bulldog said, “You first.”

He went around the room, one by one, recording impressions, guesses, remembered images.

I was in Notes, typing furiously before I began losing what I’d memorized.

Daddy was next to arrive; it’s not that far from Brookside to the Crossroads. Forty-some blocks north with a flasher on his car roof.

He gave me a quick hug and read my hastily jotted notes while he listened to man after man speak into Bulldog’s recorder.

It wasn’t the crime that brought Bulldog out. It was the men who’d been robbed. Players, some of them. Respected, most of them. Connected, a couple of them.

Daddy came because of me. Probably I’m his favorite daughter.

When it was my turn I started with my money, “I brought...”

Herb Finn jumped in, “Two hundred dollars.”

Another man agreed, “That’s all she brings.”

Two others nodded.

So much for my secret economic strategy.

Gene Austin was apoplectic. Incensed that his building had been violated, his friends robbed. “Drinks are on the house.”

Before the next poker night, he had a steel reinforced door with a porthole installed. Entrance by recognition and permission only.

Gene also hired a comely young girl, boobs bigger than mine, to play hostess. Mix drinks, keep the snacks fresh, flirt. I didn’t comment when she went upstairs with one of the players after the game ended.

No one asked me to investigate the heist. And we all knew it would be a low priority for the police who have serious crimes to solve.

But I am a detective, even if it’s only a private one, so I knew the Great Wrigley Poker Robbery would be added to my caseload.

One thing I’d noticed that no one had commented on was that the bad guys didn’t steal any poker chips. Even though they’re accepted at the Wrigley and a few other places in the Crossroads. They were smart enough not to try to spend stolen tokens that had come from a place that had just been knocked over.

When Bannerman handed me a copy of the players’ tapes, he said, “Nobody stole any chips, so that’s a dead end.”

Buster Fagin called me from Raytown a little before 3 in the morning. “I think I saw your guy.”

Jin!

“Where, honey?” I was instantly awake.

“Walking by the pool hall.”

I knew immediately where he meant. Raytown Rec on 63rd street. Been around longer than I have. No bar, no food, just pool. But they close early. Why is my freelancer out and about? Calling at this hour?

Vanessa was wide awake, but she lay still. Waiting to hear if it’s bad news.

“They’re closed.”

Big sigh, “I know that, bitch. Sheesh. I followed them on my bike.”

“Don’t let them see you, Buster. I mean it. He’s poison. Who’s they?”

“Some woman. Chink.”

“Where are you?”

“SleepEaze Economy.”

Under $30. Jin has money. Well, the Suen family does. Doesn’t mean Jin does. Oh, the cheap motel probably doesn’t require ID, that’s another consideration. It’s in Independence. Shit, Buster must have peddled like crazy. Probably five miles from Raytown. Little fucker.

“Are they still there?”

“Yeah, car is. Volvo, looks new. I can point out their room.”

“Stay put. No, get out of sight. Don’t follow them if they leave. Do not follow them.”

I was dressing as fast as I could. Vanessa too. She wrote out a note for the kids as I called Daddy. I could hear him dressing as I gave him the location. We both know the place. Inexpensive. Anonymous.

He didn’t have to tell me to hang back. I just wanted to get Buster Fagin out of the immediate vicinity and away from the action.

Daddy, flasher on the roof, Sergeant Finch, and two, two-man patrol cars turned off their sirens blocks away. I parked the next street over, looking for Buster. An ambulance glided to a stop out of sight of the motel.

Sergeant Finch found Buster crouched behind the bushes that framed the motel. She grabbed his arm and pointed away from the motel. Buster pointed up to the second floor. To a room. Then to the Volvo. California plates.

Daddy came out of the office, a passkey in his hand. Vanessa was breathing steadily beside me. One police officer was on his radio, quietly calling in the Volvo. Another had the metal battering ram they would probably use instead of the key. The chain lock, or the bolt lock, could be engaged.

Reluctantly, walking backwards to watch the drama, Buster came vaguely in our direction. I switched off the overhead interior light and got out. Grabbed him, hugging him too me, so fucking relieved. Little fucker.

Vanessa, good manners fully in place, introduced herself. Buster tore his eyes away from the motel for a moment and nodded approvingly, “Fine pussy, this one. Two primo pussies.”