Any Port in a Storm: An Emmanuel Smith Mystery

ANY PORT IN A STORM:

AN EMMANUEL SMITH MYSTERY

John T. Schmitz

Published by Maple Hills Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by John T. Schmitz

All Rights Reserved

Original cover artwork designed and painted by Megan L. S. Schmitz, Copyright © 2011

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Please visit Mr. Schmitz at http://www.johnschmitz.hpage.com

This novel is dedicated to my children, Kennedy and Calvin, who already love books as much as I do. Kids, life is a mystery and an adventure—parts of which are immortalized in great pieces of literature. Remember: the magic exists as long as you want it to.

—JTS

Unrighteous anger cannot be justified, for a man’s anger tips the scale to his ruin.

—Ecclesiasticus 1:22

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue – The Rorschach Test

PART I: Victims

Chapter 01 – Pinky

Chapter 02 – Frank Fortney

Chapter 03 – John Knuckles O’Malley

Chapter 04 – Aloysius Conway

Chapter 05 – Dunn and Goder

PART II: Secrets

Chapter 06 – Susan Marsh

Chapter 07 – Scoundrels

Chapter 08 – Clues

PART III: Sunsets and Storms

Chapter 09 – War

Chapter 10 – Lines in the Sand

Chapter 11 – Showdown

Chapter 12 – Answers

Chapter 13 – Accidents

Chapter 14 – Any Port in a Storm

About the Author

PROLOGUE

The Rorschach Test

It looked like a Rorschach test.

The blood was smeared into the carpet

(old it was so old what a shithole)

and the woman was screaming. His partner should have been in the lead, but he was hanging back. The young policeman had only two months until he was off probation; his F.T.O. had let him go up first.

He wished that he hadn’t.

The policeman thought of his wife and son who were at home waiting for him. He had taken the civil service exam and joined the department ten months ago because it was the best job that a man without a college degree could hope to get. The pay wasn’t bad, there were benefits—there certainly was job security—and then there was the pension to look forward to.

Twenty years. It seemed so long—so far away.

No one had told the young policeman that he would answer a radio call before lunch and not be able to keep a meal down for a week because of it.

There was so much blood.

There was more blood inside of the apartment.

The young policeman had no idea that there could be so much blood.

His partner

(gus his name is gus)

was pushing him out of the way now; he left a bloody handprint on the apartment’s white wall and little bits of flesh were sticking to the sleeve of his blue woolen uniform shirt. There was shouting now—his partner

(gus)

was on the telephone. The young policeman could hear sirens; they were far away but drawing closer. His partner was sobbing and wiping his eyes, leaving streaks of gore on his cheeks.

The policeman stumbled back into the hall. The woman was still kneeling near the

(rorschach test)

body; she was still screaming and she was covered with blood and

the policeman was gasping for breath and choking back a scream as he came to life in his own bed. He was clutching at the sheets, which were soaked with sweat.

His pillow was wet; he had been weeping.

She was there, though; she was stroking his back and wrapping her arms around him and soothing him. She was saying, "There, there. I’m here. There, there."

And she handed him a drink, but his hands were shaking so badly that he spilled most of it. She lit a cigarette for him and placed it between his lips, which trembled and were glistening with tears.

And when she asked what he had been dreaming about, he told her. He had never told anyone

(just once he had told one man just once)

about that day in the tenement. The day that he saw the Rorschach test.

PART I: Victims

Do not invite death by the error of your life, nor bring on destruction by the works of your hands; because God did not make death, and He does not delight in the death of the living.

—Wisdom of Solomon 1:12-13

CHAPTER ONE

Pinky

1

Inspectors Emmanuel Smith and Aloysius Conway were working midnights. They had talked about moving over to the day shift; by the time they discussed it though, they were both already divorced and neither one of them was much of a morning person anyway. Going end-of-watch at midnight isn’t bad as long as you’re not a family man—you still have the best part of the night ahead of you.

They didn’t always get off at midnight, though; sometimes they’d catch a case at a quarter to twelve and get stuck working until dawn—sometimes longer.

They were assigned to the Robbery/Homicide Division of the Bay Port City Police Department—sometimes just called Bay City or Port City. They were both dinosaurs; they had come on the force from the same academy class twenty-two years before.

Wanna make that coffee Irish, Al? Manny Smith asked his partner as he added a nip of whiskey to his own cup. Inspector Smith was a big man with dark hair that was beginning to gray; he was good-looking, confident, and tougher than a trigonometry test.

Al Conway didn’t look up from the memo that he was reading; he just slid his mug over to Manny Smith’s desk where his partner fortified it for him. Al Conway was a nervous, twitchy little man; he was too skinny and no matter how much greasy kid stuff he put in his hair, little tufts of it still popped up.

Whaddaya think a this? Al said when he had finished reading the paper; he thrust it into Manny’s hands.

Inspector Smith looked at the document briefly and discarded it. More bullshit from the brass, he said.

I’m not sure about that, the lieutenant said, approaching their desks. This memo—he plucked it out of the trash—says that Chief Sutherland has gotten wind that some of his troops—the detectives, in particular—might have a ‘drinking problem.’

Imagine that, Manny said.

Al took a sip of his coffee and tried not to grimace.

Whaddaya want, Lou? Manny whined. If it’s a drink you’re after, I hear one of the beat cops keeps a bottle in the callbox on the corner.

You two have a body—here’s what we have so far, he said, handing Emmanuel Smith a preliminary case file.

Aww, Christ, Lou, Manny complained. Ain’t anybody else catchin’? We’re end-of-watch in fifteen minutes.

The lieutenant shrugged. There ain’t nobody else. You guys enjoy your night, he said.

Then the bastard winked.

2

The rain was falling hard—harder than the crossword puzzle in Saturday’s New York Times. It was April and the temperature was hovering in the mid-forties. Bay Port City was large—about two million residents—and it was nestled right up against the Pacific Ocean. Two different crime families were struggling for control of the docks, the numbers racket, the drug trade, and just about every other vice a person could think of. It was on Emmanuel Smith’s mind when he and Aloysius Conway left the station house because he saw one of Archibald Stone’s enforcers loitering about halfway down the block. They might have rousted him if they didn’t already have their hands full.

Some other time, Manny Smith thought.

Archie Stone’s crew was looking like they might come out on top—they were waging a war with the Italians. Stone’s boys weren’t afraid to use a little

(a lot)

of muscle to get their point across ... even if it meant killing a cop now and then. Killing police officers was taboo, of course—it was bad for business and usually spelled the end of whoever was responsible—but old Archie had managed to get away with it thus far, mainly because the fuzz that he offed was dirty and everyone knew it.

That wasn’t unusual—Manny Smith knew a lot of guys who were on the take—but he never got in bed with any of the families; as soon as you did, you were working for them and lost any kind of advantage you might have had. Once a cop takes money, guys like Archie Stone own them—and it’s real easy for the crew to tip off the brass if the cop stops doing as he’s told. Manny Smith was not above making money—even if it wasn’t exactly legal—but it was his own skin and a small sense of pride that had always kept him more or less straight.

Al and Manny climbed into their unmarked Ford, but only a fool would mistake it for anything but a police car. Al turned on the red light above the dashboard—otherwise it might have been dawn before they even got to the goddamned crime scene.

Manny Smith lit a Camel and reclined in the passenger seat; Al was driving. How’s the wife? Manny said, figuring that a little conversation might pass the time.

"Ex-wife ... and she’s mean as a snake," Al said; he also lit a cigarette—a Lucky Strike.

Mine too, Manny sighed. He actually had two ex-wives—and he swore that there would never be a third.

Which one? Al asked.

What’s the difference? Manny said. I’m just glad the second one never foaled—the kids from the first marriage will be grown soon. Who needs more little rug monkeys to pay for?

Amen, Al said; he blasted the horn at a slow-moving taxicab and shouted: Can’t you see the fuckin’ light, you asshole?

Manny’s head hurt. He threw his cigarette butt out the window and sat up straighter. Whaddaya say we stop at Nell’s on the way there?

Al looked at his partner.

It’s on the way, for Christ’s sake! Manny said.

Al didn’t argue; he wanted a drink and a sad song about as much as Manny did—and Nell’s Tavern would have both. He stopped the car in the right lane about two blocks further up Fry Street; he turned off the red bulb above the dash and flipped the visor down—the sign there said:

POLICE

OFFICIAL BUSINESS

You’re blocking these guys in, Manny Smith said, pointing to the row of cars parked along the curb.

"There ain’t nowhere to park in this fuckin’ city—there ain’t even nowhere to put a police car, for God’s sake. All these assholes are in the bar, anyway—they’ll know where to find us."

Nell’s was a cop bar—not strictly for cops, but many of the guys from the Tenth Precinct did their drinking there. The owner, Jimmy Nell, was retired from the force; he had pulled the pin ten years earlier and used his savings to open the place up. His pension made up for what he lacked in business. As for him having a savings account, Jimmy was smart: he never got married. A guy didn’t have to take bribes to make a living on the force; all he had to do was stay away from women.

There was a hype standing a few doors down from the bar; he was lurking in the shadows, probably looking for a fix. The dumb bastard didn’t know that half of the guys going by were the heat. Hey, stupid! Manny called. Get the fuck outa here!

The junkie started to say something smart and then thought better of it; he may have been dumb, but he’d have to be pretty far gone not to recognize a couple of detectives, badges or no badges. He scurried off.

Al and Manny walked inside; they were glad to be out of the rain. There was a soft melody playing on the jukebox; the lights were low; the bottles lined up behind the bar were twinkling; there were about a dozen men and a few women—cop groupies, from the look of them—carrying on. It was half-past twelve; the place was livelier than it would have been a few hours earlier.

Manny! Al! Jimmy said, looking up from the glass that he was polishing. He was a jolly old Irish beat cop with silver hair and a big belly. What’ll it be, fellas? You guys just gettin’ done with your tour?

I wish we were, Manny said, taking out his wallet and laying some bread down. We caught a case with fifteen minutes to go and we figured there’s no sense in rushin’ across town. That’s the nice thing about workin’ Homicide: dead people will wait for you.

Right you are, Jimmy said. So a quick one for two workin’ dicks.

They both ordered bourbon and a beer. The detectives didn’t bother to get too cozy; they stayed at the end of the bar and eyed the crowd. They wouldn’t be missing much tonight—the dames were sad-looking and a couple of young coppers already had their hooks into them.

Al Conway sipped his whiskey and chased it with his beer. He’s awfully quiet tonight, Manny thought.

What’s on your mind, Al? Inspector Smith said, taking a handful of peanuts from the dish on the bar.

Nothin’, Manny, he said, a little too quickly. Ya ever think about retirin’? Maybe buyin’ a joint like this one? Or doin’ somethin’ else?

Sure, Manny said, "but I can’t afford to retire—not after I went and married that last bitch. Imagine that: I fell in love like some stupid kid and screwed myself into another ten years on the job ... at least."

Al nodded and took another sip of his bourbon.

"What’s the difference, Al? You and me, we’re still young guys. We can do this job with our eyes closed—and no matter what, we’ve got our pensions locked in. They can’t take those away."

Al shook his head. He had never liked the force as much as his partner did—it stressed him out too much. Aloysius Conway could bust heads with the best of them, but a lot of it was show; Emmanuel Smith had always been tough ... and he liked proving it. Al, though—he was a worrier.

The detectives finished their drinks and got ready to go; neither one of them had any illusions that they would be back before the bar closed. Manny Smith thought about ordering another—Al would go along with it, he knew—but it was better to keep their heads straight, at least until they got the initial unpleasantness out of the way.

Manny Smith lit a Camel as they walked outside. An angry drunk was standing by their car;