Get some info

I slid back into the car feeling rotten. The snow swirled around a little less furiously. I pulled away from the curb and saw her in the rear view come out of the alley. I didn't want to see if she went back in the bar or went along the road. Either way was okay. I made a turn and was heading away from the harbor.

"Okay, you sonuvabitch. I want to get an angle on this thing before walking in to it face first. You have anyone in the area that might be able to shed some light on little miss Kaine's possible "contacts"? Yeziroth stirred again. An image of a mischievious looking minx with a wild gleam in her gray eyes flashed in my mind.

"Emma Porter. Decendent of one of the original Salem witches. She's the only one that took up the family practice since her mother got religious." he said casually. Casual, Hell. She was the wife of a U.S Senator. Word in the shamus racket was that she was good at being in the right place at the right time to get the scoop on her husband's political enemies. He practically coasted into the last election since no one on the other side could get away with cutting the tag off a mattress without her knowing. The rumor mill said she got the info from pillow talk. She might have. Lord knows she has the body for it.

I swung the car over to a phone and dropped a nickel. "Boston Globe. Carl Smithers speaking." a tired voice answered.

"Carl, this is Mike Reilly. I need to know where Emma Porter parks it when her husband is out of town."

"Hey, Mike! Long time no hear! This a case dealing with the senator?" He asked. I could almost hear his tired fingers tense over the keys of the typewriter. I guess I had to fib a little to get what I wanted. Newsies will do anything for you if they think they'll get a scoop out of it.

"Can't say. Client privacy and all." I might as well have said "Yeah, I'm looking to get the senator tossed out of office for being a commie." from the knowing chuckle he gave me.

"Alright Mike. Let me see what I can get for you." He said. I watched the wind whip the snow up into a white tornado and tear down the nearly empty street. It picked up a newspaper and whipped it around before being shattered by a fish truck. "Okay. File says Emma Porter, maiden name Crawford. Lives with her husband at their Back Bay mansion. Seen out and about town, most often at "Castillo's" with her bodyguards in tow. Likes the bottle but not too much. Say, Mike..."

"Can it. If there is anything in it you can print I'll shoot you a line. Thanks Carl." I could almost hear his face split into a grin as I hung up.

Castillo's is one helluva place to go every night. Top shelf everything, singers from New York every weekend, some of them actually worth a damn, good high ceilings so you aren't walking through clouds of other people's smoke. I knew I was never getting in there, so I parked and waited. It was still early, so I walked to a steak house down the street and got some grub and washed it down with a beer. Not too bad. The food and the brew killed the last of my hangover so I paid and split.

The door man at Castillo's was a tough looking goon. I didn't like him. Reminded me of another 6 '5 toughy I'd ran into last year. The bulge under his jacket was barely noticable, and the price of his suit meant that it was one big cannon he had strapped under there. My own .45 stood out like an elephant in a nun's habit, so I didn't even bother hiding it anymore.

4 PM. Nuts. I got out of the car and walked toward him, my hat tipped to keep the cold air out of my face. His eyes swiveled immediately toward me. Good sentry. Back to the lights. He'd close his eyes every time he puffed his cigarette in the dark as to not ruin his night vision. Probably fought in the Pacific. "Got a light, buddy?" I asked, pulling out a lucky and offering him one. He took it and popped it in his mouth. His nose had been broken and some scar tissue was over his left cheek. Could have been a boxer, could have been rifle butted. He pulled out a book of club matches and tossed it to me and got out his own.

"Thanks." I said. "You serve?" I asked. Its always a delicate question to ask a Vet, but sometimes it pays off.

"Yeah. I was with the Corps, fought on Iwo Jima." he said after a brief pause to look me over to see if he recognized me. He didn't. We were from different branches. "You?"

"Airborne. Was on the ground the night before D-Day." I said. Since we were both bored stiff we passed an hour smoking Luckys and telling war stories. His name was Fairbanks. The country is full of us now. You could base a movie on any single day of this or half a million other guy's life and it would be a smash hit, and here he was working at as a doorman. Heroes are out there pumping gas, cooking hashbrowns, and bailing hay. The only thing we got in common is our stories, which means we've got a helluva lot in common. It was nearly 5 PM when he finally asked who I was and what I was hanging around for. I told him. He chuckled.

"Good luck, Reilly. She's about as easy to get ahold of as a snake in a butter pan. Lord knows every mug in here has tried." He said. Yeziroth stirred. Something was off and he knew it. I waited for it.

"He's lying. She's been around and he knows it. He may have been with her himself. He's had to tell this lie before and knows its his job if he messes up." Yez said in my head. I thought back. "The senator doesn't know she plays here, eh? That means the bodyguard is hers, not one of his. Or maybe he doesn't care."

Fairbanks told me to drop the gun in the car and to go on in. I thanked him, tried to slip him a fin, but he shook his head. "If anyone asks, tell 'em I said you were okay by me." He gave me the look that let me know that he hated the high society scum that filtered in here every night and that he thought since I had shoved a bayonet or two into some Kraut's guts that we had a lot more in common than anyone else he was going to see that night. I nodded back. He was probably right.