The Grab-A-Cab Murder

THE GRAB-A-CAB MURDER

A Novella of the 1920s

by

Bill Gutman

Text copyright © 2017 Bill Gutman

All Rights Reserved

Books in The Mike Fargo Mysteries Series

Murder on Murderer's Row – A Novel

Death of a Flapper – A Novella

Murder on Broadway – A Novella

Seven Days to Murder – A Novella

The Grab-a-Cab Murder – A Novella

A Mike Fargo Trilogy – Three Novellas

Roaring Twenties Cop – Mike Fargo's Own Story

Mike Fargo Mysteries Website: http://www.mikefargo.com/

Contact the Author At: Bill@mikefargo.com

Cover Design by Jennifer Strang

The Grab-a-Cab Murder is a novel that combines real people with the fictional. The real people are represented as they were. With the fictional characters, any resemblance to those living or dead is purely coincidental.

This book, as well as others in the series, pays

tribute to a special era in America and especially

New York City. The Roaring Twenties was

tailor made for New York with its mix of

the arts, sports, Broadway, politicians, speakeasies,

dancing, bootlegging and crime.

Table of Contents

Chapter One – NEW KID ON THE BLOCK

Chapter Two – TOUGHER THAN HE THOUGHT

Chapter Three – EARNING RESPECT

Chapter Four – THE CASE TURNS DANGEROUS

Chapter Five – GRABBING A GRAB-A-CAB

Chapter Six – A SHOT IN THE DARK

Chapter Seven – A SUSPECT AT LAST

Chapter Eight – THE DOTS BEGIN TO CONNECT

Chapter Nine – MORE SURPRISES

Chapter Ten – LIKE RATS ON A SINKING SHIP

Chapter Eleven – THE LAST ROUND

Chapter One – NEW KID ON THE BLOCK

Congratulations, son, Deputy Chief Arlen Dell said, with a big smile plastered on his mug. From now on it's no longer Officer Fargo; it's Detective Fargo. I'm sure you'll serve us well.

Mike Fargo smiled back, at least what passed for a smile for him, something that didn't come often and wouldn't light up even the darkest of nights. Then he shook Dell's hand, saying Thank you, very quietly. He had waited a long time for this, thinking about it often during his ten years walking a beat and always doing his job the best he could. Finally, in early April of 1921, he was promoted to detective, a place he always wanted to be. He could discard the uniform that he was so proud to wear when he joined the force in 1911. Now it would be cheap suits and a straw skimmer, when he felt like donning a lid. He wasn't a kid anymore, coming up on his thirty-fourth birthday and never regretting his decision to leave Staten Island to become New York City police officer .

He knew there were guys who made detective faster than he did. He was always a plodder and a grinder, with a take no prisoners attitude, who just kept at it until he caught the bad guys. No Sherlock Holmes was Mike Fargo, but he got the job done. And, finally, he had his reward.

He was reassigned to the 17th Precinct on East 51st Street where he'd report to captain Milo Sheehan in the morning. That night, he picked up his girl, Millie Carnes, that he had been seeing on and off for about six months. Fargo never thought of himself as the marrying kind, not with the nature of his job. As a detective he'd have to be even more focused. But Millie was fun and a good sport who wasn't adverse to going into a local speakeasy for a drink, as did so many since Prohibition had gone into effect in January of 1920. Cops included.

So now you're a big cheese, eh, Millie said, with a smirk, once they were seated with a couple of beers in front of them. Suit and all.

She was a small girl with short dark hair and tight features. You wouldn't call her beautiful by any means but the word cute often came to mind. At any rate, Fargo enjoyed her company. Being with Millie was a way to forget about the bad guys and human trash he so often encountered. He was hoping that his promotion would give him bigger fish to fry, albeit just another level of trash.

Yeah, I'm going bring the cheap suit back into style, he cracked.

Didn't know it ever left.

You got a point there. To be honest, when I was working the docks on Staten Island I never thought I'd be wearing one of these. Never even owned one.

Maybe they should have you go undercover as a dock worker, she said. Then you'd feel right at home.

Geez, my gal is a real wiseguy, he answered, taking a man-sized slug of beer.

Millie just snickered as Fargo pulled a couple of Lucky Strikes from his pack and gave one to her. More women than ever were smoking cigarettes and it was quickly becoming acceptable, especially in speakeasy circles. They lit up and sat in silence for a couple of minutes, smoking and finishing up their beers. Then Millie asked,

So how does it really feel being a detective, or should I say dick?

Fargo flashed a quick smile at Millie's use of the popular slang term for detective. Yeah, it's jake, all right. Can't say it's something I didn't want. Nothing wrong with walking a beat, but after awhile you get tired of the petty little things. I've always wanted to tackle real cases. That should tell me what I'm made of.

Millie eyed him up and down. Hey, I think you're made of pretty good stuff. I got no complaints.

You never did, but you're one of the good guys.

That's the second time you've called me a guy. What's a girl got to do to prove herself?

Tell me that's not a loaded question, he said.

They both laughed, but at the same time Fargo was doing something else. Ever since he became a cop he had forged a habit of always keeping his eyes open, checking everything around him for potential trouble. He knew the importance of never letting his guard down. Even while relaxing in a speak with Millie he was looking at the other patrons, watching people come and go. When he saw a scruffy looking man in a torn coat and tattered cap come in and order a beer at the bar, something didn't smell quite right. Donegan's wasn't a swank joint by any means, but this guy just looked awkwardly out of place.

Fargo kept one eye on the bar as he and Millie had their back-and-forth, and that's when he noticed the man leaning forward and speaking quietly to the bartender. The bartender's eyes suddenly opened a little too wide and then darted down toward the bar. Fargo instinctively felt the man was holding a gun and when the bartender turned quickly and went to the cash register, he was sure of it.

Stay here and don't move, he said to Millie, who started to ask why, but by that time Fargo was on his feet and walking quickly toward the bar. When he was just about there Fargo began staggering and practically fell onto the bar about two feet to the left of the scruffy stranger. He could see the bartender already beginning to take the cash out of the till. Slurring his words and speaking loudly, he said,

Hey, barkeep. Get yur head outta that register and gimme anodder beer, will ya?

Out of his side eye he could see the man trying to conceal a small caliber handgun. The man looked over at him and snorted, Shut up, eh. I got me some business here first. You wait your turn.

How come, Fargo said, almost sliding off the bar.

Cause I said so, he answered, looking at Fargo for a second. Then he turned toward the bartender who had stopped pulling the dough when Fargo hit the bar. Hurry up, pal, if you know what's good for ya.

As soon as he turned back toward the bartender, Fargo moved. The stumbling drunk suddenly turned into a cat-like predator, leaping at the man and grabbing his wrist. One good twist from Fargo's huge hand and the gun was on the floor and a followup right to the jaw put the man on the floor right alongside it. Fargo kicked the gun away and yanked the man to his feet, spinning him around and cuffing him.

Thanks, buddy, the bartender said. First time this has happened here. I thought he might shoot me,

Good chance he might have, Fargo said, then turning to the still groggy would-be robber. Guess it just wasn't your lucky day, eh pal?

Who the hell are you? the man asked, as blood poured from his lip.

Fargo pulled his new, shiny badge for the first time. Mike Fargo, he said. Detective Mike Fargo.

The bartender thanked him, then winked, A detective in a juice joint? he said.

Yeah, Fargo said, winking back. Don't tell anyone.

When Fargo finally turned Millie was standing there smiling at him and shaking her head.

Wow, was all she said.

Let me run this dirtbag in and then we'll head home, he said.

Yours or mine?

Take your pick.

The next morning Mike Fargo walked into the 17th Precinct for the first time. The desk sergeant looked at him as if he was from another planet.

Detective Fargo, he said. Reporting for duty.

Yeah, was all the sergeant said.

There were already a few guys milling around, bullshitting and laughing. A couple were sitting at their desks reading the paper, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Fargo asked the one closest to him.

Where's captain Sheehan's office?

You blind or something. Name's on the door. Back there.

Yeah, I'm blind. Wanna lead me there, Fargo said.

The cop just shook his head as Fargo made his way to the office. Milo Sheehan was short and stout with a roundish face. He had a fat cigar pasted in the corner of his mouth and the way he held it made it look like he was smiling.

Welcome to the 17th Fargo. Right on time, I see.

Always, Fargo said.

Good. Nothing like punctuality, the captain said. That tells me you're serious about your job.

Is there any other way to be?

Most guys who get promoted start that way. Unfortunately, they all don't finish with that same attitude. Job gets to them.

Doesn't seem as if it's gotten to you.

Sheehan removed the cigar from his mouth and snorted, Not yet, anyway. But let me tell you, it ain't always easy.

Fargo just nodded and the captain continued.

See you made a pinch already, stopped a robbery last night.

Yeah, kinda fell into my lap.

In a speakeasy?

Hey, a robbery's a robbery. Besides, I was celebrating my promotion.

Sheehan made a waving gesture with his hand. No argument from me. Good work. Then he continued. "Gonna partner you up with one of our veterans, Billy O'Roark. Billy's been a detective for almost fifteen years and