Chicago Boogie Woogie by Gregory C. Randall

Author:Gregory C. Randall [Randall, Gregory C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Windsor Hill Publishing
Published: 2021-02-15T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

Alfano walked back to the small table where David sat. The limo was parked at the curb just beyond the window of the diner. The midafternoon heat filled the un-air-conditioned room populated with booths and tables and few patrons. Fans spun overhead. A thin Latino girl stood over David with an order book in her hand.

“The hamburgers are good here, Detective,” David said.

Alfano smiled at the girl. “Burger and fries?”

“Got it. Something to drink?” she asked.

“Cold Coke?”

“That is about the only thing cold today.” She smiled. “Two burgers, fries, and Cokes. Be right back.” She walked behind the counter and stuck the order slip on a steel ring and spun it toward the kitchen

“Did you get ahold of Suarez?” David asked.

“Told him everything. He is sending a few of his guys to check it out.”

“What did you find?”

“Sadly, David, even though I temporarily promoted you from limo driver to cop, I have to keep this information to myself. There’s many interconnected moving parts.”

“If you found something, why didn’t you take it?”

“There are two murders: Kitty’s in Chicago and Melnik’s here. The evidence must be managed. If I took everything, it all could be questioned—assuming we arrested someone at some time. Suarez will have control over it now. We came to an agreement.”

“Agreement?”

“It’s a cop-to-cop thing. He’ll discover on his own what I found, no problems.”

“You think Longacre will stay out of the apartment?”

“If she’s smart she will, but then again, smart ain’t on the menu today. Somebody did something stupid back there, and I need to see where it leads.”

✥✥✥

Alfano stood under the spacious walk-in shower in his hotel room. The only time he’d had this luxury during the last few years was at the YMCA when his apartment was being fumigated. This hotel had everything: air-conditioning, beautiful furniture, a well-appointed bathroom with a glorious shower. As he dried himself with the lush towel, trying to think of a way he could coerce his landlord into installing one in his apartment, the phone rang.

“Alfano.”

There was a pause, then came a woman’s voice, loud and penetrating: “Detective Alfano, Maxime Durant here. Are you free for dinner? My treat. We haven’t had much time together and the days are such chaos with the filming and all, and besides, I think we didn’t hit it off in Chicago. So, I believe we should spend some time together.”

Alfano, standing naked in the middle of his room, said, “One second, Miss Durant.” He shook a cigarette loose from its pack and lit it. “Now, dinner, that right? Tonight? Where?”

“Of course, tonight. I want to show you some of Los Angeles; the best restaurant is Musso and Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard. I have a standing table at nine. I assume you are free; I will pick you up at eight thirty?”

“Eight thirty, I’ll be out front. You know where I’m staying?”

“Of course, Detective. I know everything.”

The line went dead.

“Well, this ought to be fun,” he said to no one in particular.

Thirty minutes later, Alfano had his shorts on and two fingers of bourbon in a glass.

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