I pulled over at the first phone booth I saw and dropped in my last nickel and dialed Marcello and Associates. Mildred picked up after the first ring, indicating how busy she was.
“Marcello and Associates, private investigations. How can I help you?”
“It’s ‘How may I help you?’ Mildred, is the Wop in,” I asked.
“Watch your mouth, Max, he is your boss,” she said, contempt dripping from her voice.
Jeez, another one telling me to watch my mouth; everyone worrying about ol’ Max’s dental hygiene.
“Marcello”, the gruff voice said, again after one ring. Guess I was the only one at the firm who was busy.
“Hey John, it’s me, Max.”
“What’s up Max?”
“I just left a homicide scene that would curl your toes. It was over at 346 South 28th Street. Can you find out who owns that place? It’s one of them Polish flats you see all over the place down there. A woman decapitated and obviously deceased.”
“You’re shittin’ me? Who’s the lead on it, Max?”
“Marshall.” I replied.
“Is that hot detective still working with him?”
“Yep, Detective Williams and she’s still hot.” I said
“Are you getting a scoop on this, Max? When was the last time you got to scoop a story?”
I ignored the last question Marcello asked and replied. “I can get the scoop on this if I move fast, but Chief Meier is there and he is going to give a statement to the press at ten o’clock and I want to have this thing put to bed by then. I would like to call the guy who owns the place and see what I can find out about that lady.”
“Okay, I’ll get on this. It might take me a while as I will have to persuade a few people to put in some overtime.”
“Thanks John, I appreciate it. Oh, by the way, Harry said this isn’t the first beheaded woman in the area.”
“Holy shit, what’s happening down there? Makes me glad I retired. Just remember to put in a few words about the Marcello Agency in your article. We could use the publicity. Things have been kinda slow here lately.”
No kidding, I thought to myself.
“You got it.” I replied.
“Oh, and Max, quit calling me a Wop. It upsets Mildred. She’s a sensitive type.”
“What is she doing working for us if she’s sensitive?”
“She ain’t working for ‘us’ Max, she works for me.”
“Oh, right. I’ll try to remember to hold my tongue and be a little more sensitive.
“Hey, has she shaved her legs yet? I bet Harry she would do it before the summer. He said she never will. We got a saw buck on it so keep me posted, will ya?”
“Good bye Max.”
The next thing I heard was the click of the phone as Marcello hung up. The next person I called was Francis Wentworth, my editor. Horace Greenberg answered.
Just as I figured, he said Wentworth had already left for the day.
“Hey Horace, call him at home and have him call me at Rocco’s as soon as he can. It is critically important, you hear? Here’s the number, 414-782-9413. You got it?”
“Why should I do that?” Horace whined.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll come up there and kick your ass from Main Street down to Fuzzy’s Place.”
Fuzzy’s Place was a biker’s bar on the outskirts of Beaver Dam and Horace knew he wouldn’t last five minutes after he walking through the door. He just wasn’t their type.
“Are we clear on this, Horace?”
“Yes, I’ll call him.”
“Read that number I gave you back to me.” He did.
“Okay, if I have to drive all the way up there to get him to hold the presses, I promise you I am going to make a stop at your sorry ass apartment and kick your butt all the way down to Fuzzy’s and knock over every Harley I see in the parking lot and push your scrawny neck into the face of the first biker I see and tell him you didn’t mean to knock those bikes over. You got that?”
“I got it, Max, I got it.”
“You’re a good boy, Horace. Just don’t let me down on this. I don’t have time to waste.”
I hung up.