= Hunting Goodfellas
  A Dan Healey Story
  by Mike Hennessey

The young woman had a strange story to tell. She was slim, dressed in a black shirt and knee pants and what I took to be dancer's leggings. She could have passed for twenty in the right light, but I put her on the shady side of twenty-five.

"You do investigations, Mr. Healey?"

"That's what my sign says -- 'Dan Healey -- Investigations.'"

"Missing persons, I mean."

I nodded. "That too."

She was searching for a man who might be her grandfather. Her name was Claire Hanrahan, but her professional name as an actor/singer/dancer (I was right; we PIs are good at this stuff) was Claire DuBois, "my great-grandmother's name."

"Okay," I said helpfully.

"Let me start at the beginning," she said, which I agreed was a good place to start.

"My great-grandfather was Samuel Eagles, a big name in Chicago industry back in the twenties and thirties, tied in with the Capone mob. He took a trip to Paris just after World War One and got involved with a French chorus girl named Claire DuBois. A son was born in 1920 and Eagles took the baby back to Chicago and placed him with an Italian family named Aiello. The boy was raised as Dominick Aiello and became one of the nine Aiello brothers who protected Capone.

"Dominick married Mae Bragoli and they had a daughter, Isobel, my mother, who married Mickey Hanrahan, my father."

"The lawyer?" I asked. Already lost in the genealogical underbrush of her family, I could at least pretend to know something of the present.

"Yes. You knew him?"

"By reputation. A good man, by all accounts. He was, uh ... killed, wasn't he -- both he and your mother?"

She nodded. "An automobile accident."

"Sorry," I said. "I'm not usually that brutal."

"It's been a while," she said.

A long pause hung in the air. The traffic sounds hammered in from my open window.

"Okay," I said eventually. "Now that we've taken a swing in your family tree, just what is it you want me to do?"

She leaned forward. "We -- my parents before they, um -- we all thought grandfather Dominick was dead years ago. He disappeared and my parents thought he was killed. He had been accused of informing against Capone and that was enough at the time to get you murdered."

"And now?"

"Now it appears he may still be alive. I heard an interview yesterday on WNEW. This author, Elton C. Foster, has written a book about Samuel Eagles and he has uncovered evidence, he said, that Samuel's son, Dominick Aiello, my grandfather, is alive and living here in New York."

I lit a cigar, one of my lesser vices. "He'd be pretty long in the tooth by now, wouldn't he?"

"Eighty or so."

"And you want me to try to find him?"

"If he's still alive, yes."

"Have you tried any of the nursing homes?"

"In the interview, Mr. Foster said he was in great health for a man of his years."

"Why not get the information from this Foster then?"

"Because I don't want to do it that way."

"Why not go to the cops?"

She looked me up and down. "Look, Mr. Healey, do you want this job or not?"

I held up my hands. "Sorry. Just trying to save you a few dollars."

She looked uncertain. "What are your rates?"

"I get three hundred a day plus expenses."

She counted out six one-hundred-dollar bills and placed them in front of me. "I'd rather be discreet than go to the police or the author myself," she said by way of explanation for her earlier brusqueness. "You think you can get me an answer in two days?"

"Maybe. Checks sometimes take longer -- especially when the person is supposed to have been dead for sixty years. But that should do it."

"You won't be putting me off, I hope. Saying there's nothing to find without really looking?"

That did it. "Look, lady, this is what I do for a living. If I don't do the job, if I can't do the job, I'll refund your money. That good enough for you?"

Her face fell. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize how I sounded. It's just that this is really important to me. Even though I never knew my grandfather Dominick. I have no one else, you see."

My voice softened. "I'll get right on it," I said. "Give me a number where I can reach you."

She wrote her address and phone number on the pad I pushed across the desk. "I won't always be home," she said, "but one of us usually is." In answer to my raised brows, she added, "I share with three other girls."

I pushed back three of the bills. "Look, Miss Dubois, let me try this for a day. I'll know better then if I can help you or not."

"I don't want charity," she said.

I laughed. "No one's ever accused me of that. Take the money. Believe me, charity is not my line of work."

She frowned, but she replaced the bills in her wallet. "Very well, then. I'll look forward to hearing from you." She stuffed her wallet in her fanny-pack and left.

My secretary, Liz Moore, entered. She lifted an eyebrow. "Have we got a job or not?"

"Looks like it."

"A little young to have troubles needing you, isn't she?"

"She's older than she looks."

"I wondered if you'd noticed."

"I'm a detective, Liz. Detectives notice things. The good ones anyway."

"Is that so? What colour was her scarf?"

I thought of her black shirt. Red? No. Green? No. Not particularly noticeable. "White," I said.

"Good work, Sherlock."

"I told you," I said.

"Yeah. Did we get any money?"

I shoved the three hundred at her. "You're a mercenary woman, you know that?"

She ignored me. "To whom do I write the receipt?"

"To Claire DuBois, that's to whom."

"I expect fine grammatical points are beyond some of us gathered here."

"That they are," I said. "They are that."

I told her about the case. Liz and I have no secrets from each other. We'd known each other since our schooldays at PS 111 and Park West High, up in Hell's Kitchen. We'd been together ever since the day I took fate in my hands and said to her, "Look, I know your name is Mary Monica Moore, but you don't look like a Mary to me, and only your mother, I'm sure, calls you Mary Monica, so I'm just going to call you Liz."

I don't know, maybe she was impressed by my off-handedness, or something. Anyway, we took up with each other and the rest, as they say, is history. We'd even discussed marriage once or twice -- okay, several times -- at her insistence -- but things seemed so right this way, why disturb the status quo?

Now, we had a case, but could I solve it in a day? "Do you think you can find him?" Liz asked.

"Who knows? Even if I had a description, it wouldn't help much in this city."

"Wouldn't help you much, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this, Ellery -- she wasn't wearing a scarf."

* * *

One phone call was all it took to get a disgusted editor who told me I'd find author Elton C. Foster, "the drunken son-of-a-bitch," at the Tavern on the Green. "He's been hanging out there for the last week."

He was there all right, sucking back beer. I recognized him at a distance from the editor's description. He was a big bruiser of a man, bearded, wearing a red checked shirt. He looked as if he'd be more at home with a double-edged axe in his hands than a pen, but authors come in all types and shades. I introduced myself and showed him my license. He glanced at it briefly, then at me, then passed me back my wallet.

"That goddam editor send you after me?" he growled.

"Nothing like that," I laughed. I said I wanted to ask him a couple of questions about his book. Nothing authors like better, I've been told, then talking about their writing.

"Pull up a chair," he said. "Have a beer?"

"Sure. Guinness."

He ordered from the young waiter who was keeping as close to him as a fridge magnet.

"Likes the tips," the big man said. I half-smiled.

"What was it about the book, Mr. Healey?"

"Call me Dan."

"Okay, Dan. Call me Fuzzy."

"Fuzzy Foster," I said. "Okay. Now, the book."

"Yes," he said. "I called it The Era of Wonderful Nonsense -- a title I stole from Westbrook Pegler who used it to describe the Twenties. It's mainly about this individual who seems to have dropped from the collective American memory, and--"

"Yeah? And who was he?"

"I'm getting to that."

"Of course." I just hoped he'd get there sooner than the way he was headed.

"Yes. Ummm. Where was I?" He had obviously been in the bar for some time.

"The collective American memory."

"Yes. He's really the forgotten man of that era, a man of national influence and a millionaire who died in Paris with three dollars in his pockets, and fourteen million in debt. A loser in the end, and nobody remembers a loser."

"I'll bet you're talking about Samuel Eagles," I said.

He looked at me suspiciously. "You've read my book." It was an accusation.

"Not guilty," I said. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I wasn't much of a reader, and if I had been, a bio of old Sam Eagles would have a hard time making even the bottom of my list.

I told him the girl's story. "So," I concluded, "it's Dominick Aiello she's interested in since he's probably her grandfather. And if it's really him, I'd like to talk to him."

"There's no doubt it's him," the big man said, interested. "I took him up and down that period several times. He knew all the names, dates, places, the names, for instance, of all eight of the brothers and their nicknames. He rhymed them off, their ages, when they were killed or died -- they're all dead except him -- the complete goods on how he betrayed Capone, the works. I spent several hours over the period of a week with him. Then I checked it all with the FBI and they confirmed it -- but only after they'd checked with the old man that it was all right to tell me. They knew he was alive, they've known all along. There's no doubt -- he's the real goods."

"Where does he live?"

"I didn't print that in the book for obvious reasons. Both he and the FBI think there's still old gunners around who'd knock him off if they could find him."

"Seems unlikely," I said. "He'd be what -- eighty or so?"

"I agree, it seems unlikely." He smiled, remembering. "He talked a lot about the old days up in Hell's Kitchen."

"Where I'm from," I said.

He gave me the address. "Huh," I said. "Just a few blocks from where I live now."

"There you go," he said. "This case is full of coincidences."

"Thanks, Fuzzy. Have a beer on me."

"Don't mind if I do. But just a moment."

He reached down to his feet where I had noticed a plastic bag. He pulled out a copy of his book. "Let me inscribe this for you," he said.

"Tell you what," I said. "Will you do me a favour and inscribe it to my secretary. She's a big fan of yours. Her name is Liz."

He thought a moment, and I read what he wrote over his shoulder. "To Liz, with affection. An author cannot have too many fans." He signed with a flair.

"Thanks, Fuzzy," I said. "She'll love it."

"Let me know how it comes out with the old man," he said. "There may be a story there for me."

I said I would and left him with his nose in the suds, likely preparing for another interview. Tough life.

* * *

I went to the address my new friend Fuzzy had given me. It was a walk-up over on Eldrige Street, a duplex, side-by-side apartments. I rang the bell at length on the side holding the card reading "Dominick." When there was no answer I tried the door. It was unlocked so I let myself in and closed the door behind me.

The first thing that hit me was the silence -- I could hear only a slight ringing in my ears. The second thing was the smell. It wasn't pleasant and I was sure I recognized it.

I moved swiftly into the living room and found the body of an elderly man on the carpet on his back. He was well dressed in shirt and tie and a colorful checked tartan vest -- a gambler's vest, I thought, before I saw the card on his chest -- a business card with a royal flush fanned out on it and the words, "Call Dominick" followed by a phone number. A gambler's card, I thought, arrange a game by calling old Dom.

I picked up the card by its edges to read the words written in a crabby hand across the bottom. "He drew to an inside straight." There was a neat bullet hole -- probably a .22 -- through the centre of his forehead.

I went to the apartment next door and I heard the shuffling footsteps inside after I rang the bell. The door opened a crack to reveal another old man. Must be an area for seniors, I figured, not much hope of anyone seeing or hearing anything.

"There's been an accident next door," I said. "I'm investigating it."

"Finally got his come-uppance, did he?" He smacked his gums.

"Why? What did he do?"

"A gambler," the old man said. "Coming and going all hours of the day and night. Crowds in there drinking and carousing."

"I wanted to ask you if you heard a row or saw anything unusual yesterday?

"Nothing's unusual for that place. I saw a man about my age going to the door as I was leaving yesterday, but there's nothing unusual about that. But it was quiet last night and I haven't heard a sound today. An accident, you say? Is he dead?"

"Yes."

"I always said he'd come to no good end. Gamblers never do, young man. There's a lesson in that."

"Yes, sir," I said. "Well, I won't trouble you any further."

"More police coming?" He thought I was a police detective. I let him think so.

"They'll be over soon," I said. "I gotta go."

"What's your name, young man, so I can tell them I was talking to you."

"Philip Marlowe," I said.

"Well, Mr. Marlowe, I'll tell them you discovered the body, will I?"

"It's okay with me," I said, and left him before I got Sam Spade on the case as well.

I found a telephone outside the drugstore on the corner and called my friend, Sergeant Ozzie McFeeters, at the Fifth Precinct and told him about the body.

"Stay there," he said. "I'll be right over."

"Can't wait, Mac. Got a client to report to. I'll get back to you shortly."

"Now, listen here--"

I hung up. I'd apologize later. Mac was my oldest friend and he'd understand. We'd been partners on the job before I'd been wounded, and when I was fit to return, it was ride a desk or out. I'd taken early retirement and gone private. I was perfectly fine, but a bullet had nicked my lung and it meant that I wasn't the swiftest when sprinting and climbing were required. So here I was at thirty-three making it pretty well as a PI. Mac still referred some work to me, usually jobs where the department wasn't particular if the guilty party came in under his own power or not.

I went back to my apartment and called Claire DuBois. The girl who answered said she'd get her.

"Claire," I said when she came on the line. "I've got bad news. There's no doubt that the man you told me about is Dominick Aiello, and I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but he's dead."

"Oh no!" she gasped.

"I'm afraid so. He was shot, so it seems someone else heard that interview and hunted him down. Looks like a professional job -- a single shot, probably a .22, through the head."

"Ohhhh," she wailed, and I realized I could have broken it more tactfully. I waited until she had herself under control, then said more gently, "If it's any consolation, he didn't suffer. He died immediately."

"It's not as if I knew him or anything," she sniffed. "Just that I thought I'd discovered a living relative at last."

"I know. It's always tough." I paused a respectful length of time, then asked her if she wanted me to do anything further.

"What about the man who killed him?"

"The police will likely get him."

"Maybe. But I'd like you to look into it."

"Well...."

"If it's money, I've got enough for a few more days."

"It isn't money. This may well be a payback from the old days. It has all the earmarks."

"All the more reason. The police won't give a killing like that any priority."

"All right. I'll look into it."

"Thank you. Where can I claim the body?"

I told her where the morgue was. "But you'd better call first. They probably won't release the body for a day or so."

"I'll do that. Thanks again."

We hung up. I don't know what she was thanking me for.

I called Mac. "Is this the well-known Philip Marlowe?" he said.

"I had to tell him something to get rid of him."

"The truth wouldn't have hurt."

"I thought you'd enjoy the literary allusion, Mac."

"Allusion."

"Yeah." Mac had a habit of doing that, taking individual words out of context and trying to add new meaning to them. Or maybe he was just poking fun at me.

"He was whacked," Mac said.

"Go on. I thought he poked that hole in his head with a pencil."

"Nope," Mac said, refusing the bait. "Shot."

"By whom, do you think?"

"Did you say 'whom'?"

"Picking up bad habits from Liz," I said.

"Yeah. Well, whomever did it wasn't very careful. We found the shell case -- it ejected right into the waste basket. We got a beautiful set of prints as well. He probably couldn't find the casing and absently put his hand on the table and leaned over looking for it."

"And?"

There was glee in his voice. "Get this -- Nailer Monaghan."

"Geez, I thought he died years ago. About the time of Capone."

"That was the report. He must be ninety if he's a day."

"About the same age as yourself," I said.

"Some days, boy, some days."

"So, what're you going to do?" I asked. "Hunt him down and shoot him like a dog?"

Mac ignored me. "The prints wouldn't be enough. He could have been in and out of there anytime, calling on a gambling buddy, stopping for a drink, a month ago, last week, anytime."

"Probably leaned on the table to take his weight before he died of old age."

"That's possible too."

"Want me to talk to him?"

"Might as well. But be careful. Even though he's ninety he's probably still too swift for you." He gave me an address. "It's old. He mightn't be there any longer."

"It's a starting point."

"The department can't spring for anything on this," he said.

"It's okay, I've got a client. Anyway, I'm curious."

* * *

The next morning I sat in my old Chevy near the address Mac had given me and drank coffee for an hour. About ten, a well-dressed old man left the house and shuffled up to the newsstand on the corner, picked up a couple of papers and a carton of coffee, and shuffled back. I didn't know if this was Nailer Monaghan or not, but he was about the right age and he lived in the right house.

I gave him about ten minutes to get settled in with his papers, then crossed the street and stopped by the front gate. I had a clipboard in my hand. I didn't know who'd be watching me, but just in case, I made a show of studying the house number. I looked up, down, and across the street, checked my clipboard, shrugged, walked up to the door and rang the bell.

The door opened a crack. "Yeah?"

I held up my clipboard. "Doing a city survey. Looking for Charlie Livingstone."

"Never heard of him."

He started to close the door but I had my foot firmly wedged in it. In the background I could hear Sinatra singing "Put Your Dreams Away."

"You can still help, sir," I said. "I can get your name now and I won't have to come back."

The old eyes were crafty. "What's it for?"

I shrugged. "Something to do with water rates. That's all I know. You know the city, don't tell you nothing. All I know is we're surveying the whole area."

He seemed satisfied. "Okay. The name's Ivan Monaghan."

"Not the famous Nailer?"

"What!?"

I pushed the door open, forcing him back. But don't let anyone kid you -- these old timers didn't get where they are, didn't live as long as they did, without being careful.

I eased inside as he fell back and then found myself staring into the long barrel of a hit man's killing weapon, a .22 Colt revolver.

"Since you're so damn anxious, come in," he said.

"Hold it, now, hold it, let me explain." I looked into his eyes and paused in my reach for the gun in my shoulder holster.

"Go ahead, make my day," he said, reminding me where some of these bad guys get their best lines.

I segued the move into pulling down my jacket. "Easy, Nailer, easy," I said.

"You better start talking -- and quick."

I told him who I was and about my client, Claire DuBois, the granddaughter of old Dominick Aiello, and of my part in the search. At the end he lowered the gun to his side.

"I'll be damned," he said. "So old Dom has a granddaughter. I didn't know."

"Neither did he," I said. "Would it have made any difference to you?"

We had moved further into the living room. I was standing by a big sofa. He was standing in front of what I took to be his favourite chair, facing the TV, a tall and slim old man with piercing eyes, still looking sharp in a well-cut dark suit.

He considered my question. "No, not likely. There's been a contract on Dom since 1935. I was the lead gun on it, and it bothered me for a long time. Then I thought he'd died, that we'd missed him. And he was right here under our noses all the time. I wouldn't have known him. He's changed a lot -- got a lot older looking."

"Sixty years will do that to you," I said. "Present company excepted, of course." He didn't recognize, or ignored, the irony in my voice.

"What led you to me?"

"You left your prints on the table when you leaned on it."

There was a pause and I could almost see the reels rolling as he played it back in his head.

"Yeah," he said. "I felt weak afterwards -- you know how it is, I don't seem to have the stomach for this work any more -- and I leaned a moment on the table. Didn't think about it. Damn! Getting rusty in my old age."

"It's gonna cost you, Nailer."

"You gonna turn me in?"

"I have to. You know how the game is played."

"Yeah, I do," he said. He raised the gun. "I seem to recall that whoever has the highest hand at the end wins. So just how do you aim to turn me in?"

"I haven't given it much thought."

"Well, now's your chance. They say that death looking you in the face tends to concentrate the mind."

"I can vouch for the truth of that."

"Why don't you just turn around, son, and walk out of here?"

"You'd let me?"

"Maybe."

"On the other hand, I can stand here for an hour or two and you might just drop dead of old age."

"You're a funny lad, you know that?"

"I've been told I have my moments."

"What part of the city you from, lad?"

"Hell's Kitchen originally."

"Thought so -- you still got the twang. Shades of Owney Madden, Mad Dog Coll, Little Patsy Doyle. The old days."

"I heard of them."

"Before your time, son."

"Way before."

"What's your name, son?"

"Dan Healey."

"Healey." He thought a bit. "Any relation to Martin Healey?"

"He was my father."

"I knew of him. He had the reputation of being a straight cop."

"He was."

There was a pause.

"They were bad times then," he said. "But at least there was some honour."

"Among thieves, you mean?"

"You got a mouth, boy."

"I've heard that before, too."

All this time I had been edging closer to him, hoping the talk was distracting him.

"That's far enough, lad," he said. "Be a good boy and back up a few paces."

I didn't move. There was a flat crack and the toe of my left shoe exploded. I jumped and landed back several paces and let a roar out of me.

"Dammit, Nailer, you ruined my shoe! Brand new pair of Rockports!"

"I'll give you enough for a dozen pair of Rockports if you just forget this visit," he said. "You're for hire, aren't you?"

"Only to one client per case," I said, "and I'm already spoken for."

"Too bad," he said, raising the .22 and sighting along it to my head. I felt myself drawing back, trying to wish myself invisible. From that perspective, the barrel looked as big as a bazooka.

The tableau held for ten seconds.

He gave a cold smile and lowered the gun. "You got guts, lad," he said. "I'll give you that."

"You wouldn't say that if you could see my insides right now."

"Enough of this small talk," he said. "Go on, get out of here."

I found I could move after all, and I headed for the door. I turned back to face him.

"You know I'll have to go to the police, Nailer."

He nodded. "You do what you have to do, lad, and I'll do what I have to do."

I stared for a long five seconds at the old man. He gazed back at me, completely at peace.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Nailer."

"Yes it does, lad. Now go -- please."

I closed the door softly behind me and went down the three steps to the street. I paused at the front gate and listened. From somewhere I heard a muffled shot. I closed the gate and kept on going to my car and back to my apartment. Nailer had finally put his dreams away.

I phoned Mac as soon as I got in and told him what he'd find and where.

"So now you're picking on octogenarians," he said.

"I thought an octogenarian was a wind instrument you blew into -- what we used to call a sweet potato."

"That's an ocarina," he said.

"By George," I said. "That's two words you know beginning with 'oc'."

"How about 'ocean'?"

"How about 'Occam's Razor'?"

"Who the hell is Occam?"

"An old English philosopher I used to know."

"You and a philosopher -- yeah, sure. What's this about his razor?"

"Nothing ... cut his throat ... forget it, Mac," I said, feeling bad that I was making light of the old man's death.

"I already have. So -- did old Nailer die of fright when he saw you?"

"No. Swallowed his gun."

"Oh no."

"Yep. Been carrying that contract around for almost seventy years. Probably what kept him alive. Once it was over he had no reason to continue to live."

"Hope you got paid for your time," Mac said. "Sorry we can't help you on this one."

"I got paid," I said. "Such as it was."

"We may have something for you soon," Mac said. "Keep in touch."

We hung up and I lay down on my bed, worn out from the hits and near misses of the day. When I woke it was dark outside. I caught the end of the Yankees-Blue Jays game. Then I went to bed properly.

* * *

The next morning I phoned Claire DuBois and told her that her grandfather's killer had been found dead in his home, an apparent suicide. It was a carryover from the old gang wars back in the Thirties, I told her, and there was nothing of the present in it at all.

"Your grandfather was just a quiet old man," I said, "living out his days, playing cards with his friends, harming nobody."

"It's okay, Mr. Healey," she said. "You don't have to comfort me."

"Everybody needs comforting," I said. "When's the funeral?"

She told me the morgue was releasing the body later this morning and that there'd be a brief service at three this afternoon at the crematorium down under the Brooklyn Bridge.

"I'll be there," I said.

"There's no need," she said. "I'll pay you what I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything," I said gruffly. "This has nothing to do with money."

There was a long pause. "In that case," she said finally. "I'll be very pleased to see you."

We hung up and I walked over to the office to let Liz know that I hadn't been goofing off the last couple of days. I brought her up to speed on the case and passed her the book. "Fuzzy Foster wanted you to have this," I said. I told her about the author.

"You really called him 'Fuzzy'?"

"He seemed to like it. You'll enjoy the book, I'm sure."

"Undoubtedly."

"When you call to thank him you can tell him all the details. He's interested."

"I'll do that, boss," she said.

We thought about this and that for a few moments.

"Some people get a lot out of you for three hundred bucks," she said.

"Can we afford lunch out?" I asked, and when she said yes we agreed on Sambuca's at noon. Their cheesecake is terrific.

"Afterwards," I said. "We have a funeral service to attend."

"Claire DuBois's grandfather?"

I nodded. "She needs comforting."

"And you're just the boy to do it, aren't you?"

I stared at her. "Not alone, Mary Monica, not alone. Only if you come too."

She touched the back of my hand with her forefinger. "You're a good man. Healey, underneath it all." She waggled the finger at me. "And the name is Liz."

MIKE HENNESSEY lives in Canada and has had two volumes of short stories published. Several of his award-winning plays have been produced across Canada and on CBC Radio. His story, AN ARCH FOR THE KING, placed second in the Canada-wide CBC Literary Competition. Other of his stories are scheduled to appear in upcoming issues of BLUE MURDER and ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES. He also reviews for I LOVE A MYSTERY.

Copyright (c) 2002 Mike Hennessey

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