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AP – Fat Johnny

Fat Johnny was a walking tub of lard that owned a small bistro called, of all things, “Fat Johnny’s Pasta Palace.” A palace it wasn’t. There has to be some kind of connection between small cheesy restaurants and the underworld. While he wasn’t a part of the syndicate, he generally knew what was going on. I figured I’d have a little heart to heart with Fats, see if I could find out what happened between Alvin and Frankie Desalvo.

I stop the car in front of his restaurant and turn to Angela.

“Follow my lead love,” I tell her, “and keep an eye on our backs. Johnny’s boys like to play rough.”

I look at my watch and see we missed the lunch crowd; the place should be mostly empty inside. Getting out of the car I think for a moment before removing my tie and undoing the top two buttons on my shirt. Too many coats could be a hindrance, I strip off the trench coat and jacket, dropping the latter onto the back seat and replacing the trench coat. Glancing across at Angela, I’m pleased to see she’s following my lead to the letter.

Nodding my approval I pat my pockets and make sure the perfume is still in place. We meet on the sidewalk, take a deep breath and enter the Palace together. Standing at the front, in place of a maitre d’, was one of the goons I’d fooled in the subway the day before. From the look on his face it was clear he recognised me.

“Enjoy the ride?” I ask as I move to step around him.

He grabs my arm. “Where you going sister?” he growls. “We’re closed.”

What happened next happened so fast it was over before I had time to react. Angela took hold of the goon’s arm, prising it away from mine and snapping it like a twig. Swinging him round, she hurled him through the glass-fronted counter beside us. Reaching down she lifted him one-handed from the wreckage. Shards of glass were sticking out of his face making it look as though he’d been attacked by a glass porcupine.

“Nobody hurts Shade,” she tells him, dropping him in a heap on the floor and turning to me with a look of concern on her face.

“Are you okay Samantha?” she asks. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine Angela. Good job,” I add, with a nod towards the unconscious man lying on the floor. “Shall we?” I ask with a smile. When she returns my nod, I turn and head towards the back room where Johnny likes to hold court, lording it over his subjects. Looking up I see the other clown from the subway charging towards us. “Oh dear, looks like we have someone else without any manners headed this way.”

The goon skids to a halt in front of us, seeming not to notice his partner stretched out on the floor.

“No skirts allowed sister. Beat it.” He looks at me for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. “Say, aren’t you the dame the boss wanted us to keep an eye on?”

I sense Angela stirring uneasily beside me, and reach my hand towards her.

“Let me handle this one dear.” I look at the goon; Fat Johnny must be breeding them for brawn, because this one looks like a gorilla in an ill-fitting suit. Holding up a finger I say to the man. “First of all, neither one of us is wearing a skirt.” I add a second finger to the first. “Secondly the name is Sam Shade, not dame,” I smile as the third finger joins the other two. “Third, and most important, I have business with Fat Johnny and you my friend are in my way.”

The goon shakes his head; he seems confused. “You’se a dame, you can’t fool me. Now scram.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands, as if he’s warding off a stray mutt.

Turning to Angela I frown. “Some people just never seem to learn do they?” With a rapid motion I spin back towards the clown. When my hand appears from beneath the trench coat, it’s holding the Colt. Continuing the turn I slam the butt of the pistol against the back of his skull. For a moment he just stands there, swaying slightly before crumpling in a heap on the floor.

From the back of the dining room I hear applause; a single, sarcastic handclap. “Well done Shade, you always know how to make a grand entrance, I’ll say that for you.”

I head for the table where Fat Johnny holds court; behind me Angela looks in surprise from the crumpled heap on the floor to me, and back again.

“Hello Fats,” I say as I come to a stop across the table from him. The 45 seems to move of its own accord, centring the sights on his forehead, “What’s with the goons?”

Fat Johnny has a plate of spaghetti with red sauce sitting in front of him, and slowly he returns his fork to the table before answering.

“You barge in here, break up my place, and expect me to answer you as if I were a naughty child.” He starts laughing. “Shade you are too much.” One hand drops towards his lap.

“Hold it,” I say, thumbing back the hammer. “Raise the hand nice and slow.” Johnny raises his hand to show a napkin and wipes his mouth before setting it down to one side. “I want answers Fats, and I’m in no mood to play games.”

He pours a glass of wine and sips it slowly.

“Shade, if you don’t learn to take a joke you’ll come to a sticky end.” His head shakes, “kids these days, no sense of humor. Okay Shade, what do you want to know.”

I drop the hammer and lower the pistol towards the floor.

“What’s with the goons trailing me Johnny?” I ask.

“Practice?” he asks. Then as my 45 levels on the spot between his eyes he holds up his hands. “Okay…okay…protection.”

I might have expected any number of answers from Fat Johnny, but protection wasn’t one of them.

“What do you mean protection?”

Johnny looked down at his plate for a moment before raising his eyes to mine.

“Your father once saved my life,” he said, “I owed him a debt.” He lowered his voice. “Word is out that you’re in over your head on this one.”

Holstering the colt I take a good look at him.

“What’s going on Johnny? First Jimmy and now you, both of you are acting funny.”

“I don’t know. Just that the word is that Sam Shade is going to go down hard. You know that playing hardball is going to get you on someone’s ‘better dead’ list.”

“You have a point there Fats,” I tell him, trying to laugh off his worry. It seemed like every time I took a case, someone would start screaming about how I was going to end up wearing a concrete overcoat. Pulling the two bottles of capture scent from my pocket I place them pn the table in front of him.

“Who’s dealing Fats?” I ask him, leaning forward with my hands on the table.

Fat Johnny glances at Angela standing beside me but doesn’t answer. I look at her, “Angela,” I say, “would you go check out those two gorillas and keep an eye on the door.”

“ Okay Samantha.” She gives me a smile, and as she heads out front I turn to Fats.

“Right Johnny, talk fast. Who’s dealing this crap?”

“I am,” he says, he’s talking quietly, unable to look me in the eye.

“You?” I look at him. “I want to know who you sold it to, and I want to know right now.”

Fat Johnny nods his head in the direction of the door.

“Oh damn,” I say quietly before adding, “is there an antidote to this stuff, or are the changes…” I gulp, “…permanent?”

Reaching down, Johnny picks up a small box and puts it on the table in front of him. The label on the lid reads ‘White Owl Cigars’, but Johnny isn’t interested in cigars, besides there’s only one layer which he strips out revealing several small bottles in the bottom of the box. He lifts one out and hands it to me; it matches the pair I already have, except for its label, a zero with a diagonal line running through it.

“Nothing is forever,” he says. “But this will clear away any effects immediately.”

“How much do I owe you?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“No charge this time Shade.” He looks pointedly towards the front of the restaurant before adding, “be careful.”

Nodding, I slip the bottle into my pocket with the others. As I turn away his voice stops me.

“Oh, and Shade…”

“Johnny?”

“Love the new look. It’s good to see you looking like a woman for a change, and those shoes are to die for.”

I can feel a blush rising, feeling pleased.

“Why thank you Johnny,” I say as I turn and head out of the door. I’ve taken two steps before I stop. ‘Why would he compliment my shoes?” I ask myself and look down at my feet. Instead of the usual men’s Oxfords, I’m wearing a pair of open toed sandals with three-inch heels, and my toenails are painted the same bright red as my fingers and lips. I walk out in a daze, gathering Angela at the door.

Once we are in the car I think back to earlier in the day. I remember Angela putting on the makeup and then bending down to buckle the sandals before I stood as if it were part of my normal life. As I look down at my feet I feel the hairs rising on my neck. I’d never worn heels, never even painted my toenails before today; how could I not have noticed? Angela breaks my train of thought.

“What now my love?” she asks.

I look at her for a moment, as I struggle to slow the frantic beating of my heart before replying.