Twin Cities Noir полностью

“Not now, but thanks for taking care of it for me.”

He spread his hands in a broad gesture as if to say, I’m your uncle, what did you expect?

Before I left, he handed me a leather jacket and a fedora.

I walked up to Pinsky’s on Wabasha and bought new duds—everything from suits to evening clothes. Men’s fashions had changed. The jackets were fitted with wide shoulders; the trousers were straight with wide cuffs turned up. Shirts had attached collars. In the old days, I would have had clothes tailor-made, but Pinsky had some good off-the-rack items and promised he’d have them altered by late in the day.

I ate breakfast at the St. Francis Cafeteria, and then caught the matinee of The Thin Man at the Paramount. It had been known as the Capitol Theater when I went away, but whatever its name, it still retained its elaborate façade of terra-cotta molding and Spanish grillwork. Sound had just come in when I was last at a picture show. Now I was fascinated by the dialogue between William Powell and Myrna Loy. I had read the book in prison, but I still enjoyed the picture. Myrna Loy was the kind of gal any guy in his right mind would want.

I took a streetcar up to the old neighborhood just for old times. I climbed Mount Airy Street to look over the city. Like Rome, St. Paul sits on seven hills. The town had changed despite the Depression. Along with the First National Bank building, the new city hall–courthouse had been built. And the old Victorian buildings along the river bluffs were coming down. I remembered what Frank O’Hara had told me about change. St. Paul was going to eliminate the criminal element. But what hadn’t changed was my unfinished business.

I walked down the hill to the wooden stairway that led me to Canada Street. I stood in front of my old house. My folks had died of the influenza when I was in France. I said a little prayer, then walked to the corner grocery at Grove and Canada.

The lady behind the counter recognized me and asked if I had been away. I smiled and nodded and bought a pack of Sweet Caporals, a Coca-Cola, and a Hershey’s bar. I walked over to the Franklin Grammar School where I first met Tom Macintyre and Frank O’Hara Jr. Not much had changed.

There was a Russian bath over on Mississippi Street near the rail yards. I paid my dime and steamed for an hour, trying to get four years of Leavenworth stink off me.

It was about 4 when I hailed a cab and had him take me to Pinsky’s to pick up my clothes. By the time the cabbie dropped me at Izzy’s shop, it had started to rain—not hard, but steady.

I put my parcels in my room. Back in the shop, Izzy was dickering with a man trying to hock a tuba. I stepped outside to stand in the entrance and watch the rain.

I had been locked up so long I wanted lots of fresh air, even if it meant a little rain. I took out a cigarette and had just struck a match when someone bumped into me with an umbrella and knocked the smoke from my hand. “Watch where the hell you’re going, fella,” I said, bending to pick up my snipe.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. I stood up and looked into blue eyes so dark they were almost black. I checked out the rest of the package. She had a beautiful face, oval, with dimples and a sweet mouth. Blond hair peeked out from her wide-brim hat; its feather sadly drooped in the rain. Her fur coat hid her figure, but I was certain it was a swell one.

“Sure your eyes can handle it?” she asked, not smiling. She was struggling to fix her umbrella, which the wind had turned inside out.

“I’ll take a chance I won’t go blind,” I answered, giving her the once-over again. “Can I give you a hand with your umbrella?”

“I have it,” she said, closing it.

“You know,” I said, “this neighborhood isn’t exactly safe for a pretty girl like you, dressed to the nines.”

“I can take care of myself.” She glared, clutching her handbag.

“I’ll bet you can, but don’t worry, I’m not interested in your belongings. I never was a purse snatcher.”

She looked into my face. “Wait a minute. You’re Jake Kane, aren’t you?” Her voice mellowed, “I’ve come to see you.”

“I’m Kane. How do you know who I am? And how did you know I was here?”

“The whole town knows you’re here. Someone with your reputation doesn’t come into St. Paul unnoticed.” She took a copy of the Pioneer Press from under her arm. There was my picture plastered on the front page. The headline read, Former T-Man Killer Freed After Four Years. The photo wasn’t very flattering. It was the mug shot they took when I was arrested in Tampa.

I shrugged. “What do you want to see me about?”

“We can’t talk here.” She looked in the window where Izzy was still bargaining with the tuba player. She thought a second. “I have an apartment at the Commodore. Meet me in the bar in an hour, and try to look more presentable.” I guess my work clothes bothered her.