William Topek [Topek - Shadow of a Distant Morning

William Topek

ireadiwrite Publishing

2010

Copyright 2010 William Topek

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This ireadiwrite Publishing edition is published by arrangement with William Topek, contact at william.topek@gmail.com

ireadiwrite Publishing - www.ireadiwrite.com

First electronic edition published by ireadiwrite Publishing

Shadow of a Distant Morning

ISBN 978-1-926760-48-3

Published in Canada with international distribution.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Use of actual locales and businesses is used purely for storytelling purposes and to establish a historical basis but is not intended to be a portrayal of actual events.

Cover Design: Michelle Halket

Original Cover Photography: Courtesy CanStock Photo

For their support, encouragement, feedback, and suggestions, from inception through first draft through various rewrites, I would like to thank the following people: Jeanne-Marie Carson, Patricia and Daryl Copeland, Sean Simpkins, Chuck Lass, Steve Cullen, Robert and Opal Carson, Becky Carter, Bernie Carr, Eric Fincham, and Kevin Beale. A special thank you to Curtis Craddock, who assisted me with the research.

I would also like to thank Holly Wright at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art for responding to my request for historical data.

Lastly, my sincere appreciation to Carol Hansson who did the editing for this book, and to Michelle Halket at ireadiwrite Publishing for giving my first novel a venue.

The first morning of October was a bright, clear one in Kansas City. I was sitting at the counter at Maxies Diner on Main Street, taking some breakfast and giving the newspaper a light read between bites. Four laborers in denim trousers and thick shirts sat together around one corner of the U-shaped counter, the two in the middle talking quietly over coffee and smokes while the two on the ends gave their ham and eggs a working over. I stretched my neck and saw the elderly couple still in their booth, the wife taking dainty bites of French toast and the husband gumming his grits. A pretty girl of twenty wearing too much makeup sat by herself a few booths away, looking tired as she spooned down a bowl of cornflakes. Probably just came off the night shift at some local joint. No one else had come in after her. It was early yet; business would start picking up in the next half hour.

I went back to my paper. Melvin Purvis and his bunch were said to be closing in on Pretty Boy Floyd. They hadnt let up much since that bloody shootout at Union Station last year, where four cops had been killed along with the prisoner Floyd was trying to help spring. They were turning up the heat on Baby Face Nelson as well. Thirty-Four was coming out a rough year for public enemies Bonnie and Clyde taken out in Louisiana last spring, Dillinger getting nailed in Chicago a couple months later. The cops seemed to be using as many bullets as the crooks these days, some of them taking just as many, too. Id made the right decision about going into business for myself. When I left Pinkertons a few years back, some former workmates approached me to see if I had any interest in joining the Bureau of Investigation. I hadnt. Checking out sketchy insurance claims and serving subpoenas isnt what youd call a glamorous career, but the odds are better it will be a longer one. And sure, during the slow months I still take money to shutterbug for jealous husbands, but if any of them go shooting, its not likely to be at me.

I noticed it was only two more days until the Cardinals squared off against the Tigers for the World Series. I had no idea who Id be rooting for. Id spent some time in both St. Louis and Detroit, and hadnt cared all that much for either place. Still, Id probably put a few bucks on the Cards, not so much from any regional loyalty as the fact that I liked Dizzy Deans style. It aint bragging if you can back it up. Thats what Dean had said at the beginning of the season, and back it up he did, coming back strong in the final weeks to yank the pennant away from the Giants.

The kitchen door swung open and the owner came out, making the far end of the counter in his brisk stride before the door could swing shut behind him. Al Vestovik (there was no Maxie, Al just thought the name had character) was barely over five-foot-three inches tall, and seemed nearly that wide across the shoulders. Used to be a pretty fair southpaw boxer in his day. What he lacked in reach he made up for in brute strength. He never went far, but hed won enough purse money to buy this place in the Twenties. Al may have hung up his gloves, but he hadnt gone soft in the intervening years. Last winter a couple of punks tried to rob him one night after closing, one carrying a knife, the other a bicycle chain. The hearing had had to wait until both of them were out of the hospital. They might have had a better chance with guns, but I wouldnt put money on it.

Al bent down behind the counter and hauled up a tub of clean plates, his huge, hairy arms bulging under short sleeves. His shirt, work pants, apron and hat were all immaculately white, and would remain so throughout the day no matter how many times he had to change out the pieces. At least five or six, I guessed, knowing how hard the man worked. I wondered what it cost him in extra laundry bills, but Al insisted that people want to eat their food in a clean place. He knew his business; Id never seen anyone step through the door and have second thoughts about sitting down.

He stopped in front of me, holding the tub of dishes like it was nothing.

Breakfast okay today, Mr. Caine? Al looked down at the few bites of egg and cottage fries left on my plate. Poor guy takes that kind of thing as a personal affront to his cooking. Ive explained that its my habit to leave a little, not to clog myself down with extra, but professional pride can be a tough thing to beat. I took out my worn leather cigarette case and fished for my lighter.

Best yet, Al, I told him as I fired up. If I was a bigger guy, Id have licked the plate clean.

Youre plenty big for a couple eggs and a potato.

Maybe, but a guy who works for himself has to have discipline. I figure if I can hold back from the last few bites of your cooking, Ive got the sand for anything.

Yeah, yeah, he mumbled, but I could tell he appreciated the effort. Hows your coffee? My coffee was fine, but I wasnt going to press my luck.

When you get around to it, Al, thanks.

Coming right up.

He bumped his way through the kitchen door with a beefy shoulder. I barely had time to knock the ash off the end of my cigarette before he was back with a steaming pot to top off my mug.

There you go, Mr. Caine.

Al, how many times, huh? Its Devlin. Better yet, Dev.

He smiled and shook his head stubbornly.

Youre a customer, Mr. Caine.

So? That makes me better than you?

Better? His grin got wider and creases grew in the corners of his light brown eyes. Who says youre as good?

I laughed and blew smoke toward the ceiling as Al moved off with the pot to check on the other patrons. When the coffee cooled enough I took a few sips, then crushed out my cigarette, dropped a few coins on the counter, scooped up my newspaper and hat, and hit the door. Bright sunshine was pouring down onto the sidewalk, but the mercifully cool temperature wed been enjoying of late seemed here to stay. Not a moment too soon, either. This past summer had been the hottest in living memory, and fall had arrived barely in time to save everyones sanity. I walked over to where my two-seater Ford Cabriolet was parked. Black with a cream-colored, retractable top, Id bought it two years ago when I finally had enough money to unload the Model A. The Cabriolet was my first new car and I kept it nice. Not bad for a man of thirty-six, especially these days. I climbed inside, started the motor, and pulled out into traffic.