Tony Accardo has escaped such embarrassing confrontations with a member of the judiciary. This graduate of the sixth grade of an elementary school is, as Murray Humphreys said, “An ignoramus but a very very shrewd ignoramus.” He is more than that. He is perhaps the shrewdest of all the gang leaders, past and present, and that includes his mentors, Capone, Buchalter, and Luciano, for he has never seen the inside of a jail or prison cell, and never will. He takes care of his family and his friends. His son, Anthony, has been on a movie union payroll for years.
Murray Humphreys’ brother Jack is the boss of two large gambling establishments under Syndicate ownership and also on the payroll of the movie operators union.
Tough Tony Accardo, sleek, smooth, one of the best dressed men in the world, a millionaire residing in a mansion, married to a beautiful woman, the only woman he has ever known in his life, devoted to her in the true Old World Italian style. He came up the hard way, with his fists, a gun in his hand, and an observer of the code of the underworld to the point of religious fanaticism. All the others before him were killed or died in exile with few exceptions. Tough Tony Accardo. Tough and just as smart.
Some Holds Barred
by Randall Garrett
Solve — if you can — the macabre riddle of the man who shot himself, in the head and died instantly — then cocked his gun to be ready for the next victim!
The old house was two blocks from Haight Street. The homicide car pulled up in front of it and eased into the open space between two marked patrol cars. The driver tried to get out and around the car before Lieutenant Fran Dixon could open the door, but as usual he didn’t make it. Lieutenant Dixon was already stepping to the curb.
Sergeant Curtis knew better than to offer her a hand. He waited until the lieutenant was on the sidewalk, then he shut the car door and locked it. In this neighborhood there was no greater idiocy than leaving a car unlocked; some junkie might rip it off, even with two patrol cars parked fore and aft.
Fran Dixon had her ID out as two patrolmen came toward her.
“Dixon. Homicide,” she said evenly.
The two cops came to a sudden halt and saluted. Neither of them had ever met her, but both of them had damn well heard of Lieutenant Fran Dixon. She stood just two inches under six feet, and had caramel brown eyes that could become hard or soft at will. She wore a dark green suit with a skirt that was neither mini nor midi, but about halfway between, showing an excellent length of beautiful legs.
The .38 Colt Cobra on her right hip was hidden by the dark green jacket, but it was available enough for her to get it out and firing in something like three-fifths of a second.
When the two uniformed officers had identified themselves, Fran looked at the older one and said: “What’s the picture, Martinez?”
“Guy shot to death, Lieutenant. Narcotics got a reliable tip that this place was loaded with junk, so we came to hit it. So far, we haven’t found any dope, but there’s a body up there in a bedroom — dead when we hit the place. Maybe you better talk to Sergeant Killenan, Lieutenant.”
“Where is he?” Fran asked.
Patrolman Martinez pointed. “Upstairs. He’s got a suspect.”
Fran Dixon sighed. “No doubt he does.” She knew Killenan. She turned to Sergeant Curtis. “Stay here and do some PR work. We’re beginning to get a little bit of a crowd. Tell them that this is not a narc bust, but that someone has been badly hurt, and—” She looked suddenly at Officer Martinez. “The ambulance has been called?” she asked.
“Yes, sir — uh, ma’am.”
She ignored the slip; she was used to it. She looked back at Curtis. “Tell them that someone has been badly hurt, and that an ambulance is coming to take them to the hospital. Tell them it was an accident of some kind, but that you don’t know all the details. Get it?”
Curtis grinned. “Got it.”
Fran grinned back. “Good.”
That bit of reparté was a joke they shared.
Fran Dixon went up the steps of the old two-story house, identified herself to the cop at the door, and went on up the worn stairway to the upper floor. Another uniformed cop pointed down the dingy hallway toward a door. “Sergeant Killenan’s down there, ma’am.”
The bedroom wasn’t exactly dirty, Fran thought, but it was sure as hell littered. There were clothes and books all over the place. She wondered whether that was the natural state of the room or a state induced by the narc squad when they searched the place. Probably fifty-fifty, she decided.
Sergeant Killenan sat in a stout-looking wooden chair, facing three people sitting on an unmade bed. He turned his round Irish face toward Fran when she entered the room. His eyebrows went up.
“They sent you, Lieutenant?”
“I’ve got the duty,” she said. “Why not?”
“Well, this is a tough neighborhood, ma’am,” he said, standing up. “A lady might get hurt, and—”
“I’m a lady only when I’m off duty, Sergeant,” Fran said coldly. “Who are these people?”
Before the sergeant could answer, the big, hulky, scowling young man at the end of the bed said; “So we got a broad fuzz. What’s she gonna do? Give us a parking ticket?”
Killenan, big, wide, and suddenly mean-looking, turned toward the man. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “You’ll show a little respect around here, buster, or you’ll get your goddam head kicked in. Got that?”
The two women seated next to the hulky man opened their mouths to speak, but Lieutenant Dixon beat them to it.
“Hold it!” Her voice was firm, crisp, and authoritative. “Let’s not start any shouting match until we find out what’s happened. I’m not here to bust anybody unless they’ve committed murder. The sooner we find out what happened, the sooner we can get out of here and leave you people alone. Sergeant Killenan, put one of your men in herb while we go out and look at the body.”
Killenan, still scowling, said: “Yes, ma’am! Cardona!”
The cop who had been standing out in the hall came in quickly, his hand on the butt of his .357 Magnum.
“Watch these people,” Killenan said. “The Lieutenant and I got business.”
Dixon and Killenan went out into the hallway while Cardona took over. When the door closed, Fran turned to Killenan and repeated: “Who are those people?”
The sergeant took a deep breath. It bothered him to take orders from a woman; it confused his sense of values. But he knew damn good and well where Fran Dixon stood with the department.
“The big crud at the end,” he said, “the one with the big mouth, is a guy named Larry Postman. I checked his driver’s license. The old lady fitting next to him is his mother, Ellen Postman — or so she says. No ID; she doesn’t drive a car. The little girl says her name is Louise Smith, says she’s nineteen. Looks more like fifteen or sixteen to me. No ID. She refers to Larry Postman as ‘my old man’. Apparently she’s been... uh... sleeping with him for about six months.”
“Who’s the dead man?” Fran Dixon asked.
“Guy named Wade Broadhurst. They called him Hassan the Assassin, said he was a hashhead. Smoked hashish.”
Fran didn’t bother to say. that she knew what a hashhead was; she was used to having men explain the obvious to her.
“All right,” she said, “we have a big crud, an old lady with arthritic hands, and a little girl who doesn’t weigh more than ninety pounds. What’s their story?”
“They all three claim it was suicide. And they’re lying in their teeth, Lieutenant. Want to come take a look?”