I sped past the Wisconsin Gas Light building on the lower east side, located on the corner of E. Wisconsin Avenue and North Van Buren Street. I turned onto North Van Buren and drove two blocks. I pulled up in front of a cream brick building, number 2167. The sign painted on the door said Marcello and Associates, Private Investigations, and below were the names John Marcello, William Steckel, and J. A. Miller. Miller was a new one. I would have to see who that was.
Next door was a Chinese Laundry that once scorched a few of my shirts. It is owned by a cranky chink by the name of Lee Lee. I always thought he was joking with that name, but you never know.
I opened the door and walked into the reception area of Marcello and Associates. They had a little bell, suspended from the door frame from a piece of metal that bent and snapped back when you opened the door, causing the bell to ring. I told Marcello that it reminded everyone who came in of the Salvation Army. He said he didn’t care, Mildred liked it. Mildred was Mildred Bates, his Jewish secretary, receptionist and righthand man. She was sitting in a corner toward the back of the front room, bent over her typewriter, typing up a storm. She is living proof that they don’t make Jews like Jesus anymore. The cue Jesus is waiting to see before He returns I believe is a smile on Mildred’s aging face so I figure there is plenty of time to repent before the rapture. If He is taking Mildred with him, I think I’ll just stay behind.
I expected to see smoke coming out of her ears shortly. She lived a methodical and cataloged life and didn’t like it disturbed. We had a hostile relationship. She considered me a nuisance. For some reason, I rankled her. When I worked there I would hide her files. She couldn’t prove I did it, but she knew.
She hadn’t changed. She looked the same. The hair on her legs was still as thick and dark as an Austrian forest. It was matched by the hair under her nose.
Her tongue was bent over her upper lip as she concentrated on whatever it was she was typing on her old Remington typewriter.
“Yes?” she said in an annoyed tone.
I looked at her and thought there was no way I could drink that woman pretty. “I’m here to see the Wop.”
Her hands stopped in midair. She recognized my voice and my nickname for her boss. She didn’t like it. Without trying to disguise the contempt dripping from her voice, she asked, “The donuts are gone, Max. What do you want?”
“I think I asked to see Mr. Marcello.”
“He’s in his office. Think you can remember where that is?”
“Yes. It’s nice to see you too, Mildred.”
She let out a small grunt before she went back to bitch slapping her typewriter with a vengeance.
As I walked back to Marcello’s office, I passed the empty donut tray. Harry was going to be disappointed. I wet my finger and picked up the remaining crumbs. One thing Mildred could do was make a decent donut.
The door was open. I saw Marcello sitting at his desk reading over what appeared to be reports. His sports coat was hanging over the back of his chair exposing his rig and .357 caliber handgun that hung under his left arm. His black hair was grayer than it was the last time I saw him. He had a barrel chest and his white shirt stretched over an ever-growing paunch. He played football while he attended the University of Wisconsin and was pretty good. Upon graduation, he became a G-Man and worked for J. Edgar Hoover’s organization for twenty years before retiring and opening