The Nurse Murders by Jon Talton

Author:Jon Talton [Talton, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

Monday morning, I called headquarters and got Lefty Mofford, who happily gave me Bill Sherman’s rap sheet. Multiple arrests for assault, including assault with a deadly weapon.

“One of our fine citizens, Gene. Somehow, he never went to prison, but he went under glass in the county jail a year ago, three months. He attacked his ex-wife with a knife. Ask me, he should have gone to Florence. He works at Central Dairy.”

“Any new murders, especially like Caroline Taft?”

He lowered his voice. “I’ve got to be careful, Gene. But no, we’re in the clear.”

“So far. Thanks, Lefty.”

Next, I leaned on one of my old informants, who fortunately didn’t know I’d left the police force. I threatened to violate him if he wasn’t straight with me, a one-way ticket back to prison. He knew Sherman and told me where I was likely to find him.

The tip led me to a pool hall on Washington Street, on the north edge of the Deuce. I knew the place. They ran numbers as well as providing legal recreation. It was secretly owned by Cyrus Cleveland, although all the patrons were Anglo or Mexicans. Cleveland paid bribes to certain detectives to keep the police away or warn him that a raid was coming. The vice raids were necessary to make the taxpayers believe their fine city was a moral one.

As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I checked out the room. Six pool tables, a bar, pool cues in holders on the wall, although the sharks brought their own custom cues. Behind a partition were several slot machines, illegal but protected with bribes. They could be wheeled into a closet if a raid was scheduled. Fans overhead dispersed the smoke from cigars and cigarettes. The distinctive smell of reefers added to the mix. A Wurlitzer jukebox was pumping out music. Benny Goodman’s orchestra was playing “Get Happy”.

I didn’t fit in: too well dressed, too much looking like a cop. No matter. I walked over to the bar and asked if Bill Sherman was there.

“Who wants to know?”

I discreetly showed my buzzer.

He leaned in. “That’s not right. We pay our taxes, if you get my drift.”

“I get your drift,” I said, “but I’ll shut you down if you don’t answer my question. Then you can explain to Cyrus why you’re short of receipts for the day.”

He sighed and subtly pointed.

The man was in his late twenties, muscled up, thick wavy haircut, handsome in a thuggish way, but he looked like a hard package, his eyes threatening even the billiard ball. I let him take his shot then walked over and asked if he’d talk to me.

He looked me up and down, feigning unimpressed. He stood up straight with his cue held like a rifle at order arms. “Now why would I want to talk to you?” he smirked. His two pals laughed.

“So you don’t go back to jail,” I said, showing my badge.

“Ah.” His face hardened into a scowl and I sensed what was about to happen.

He suddenly brought the heavy end of the cue at my head.

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