1947Chicago, Part 1

Byline: Gearbox

Date: Nov 99-Aug01

In process: alpha

Category: drama?
Warnings: AU, slash?
Pairings:
Rating: pg

Summary: When a back-country boy finds trouble in the big city, he hires Ray Kowalski, hardboiled Chicago PI. They encounter femmes and hommes fatale, corpses, and hear the sound of Raymond Chandler rolling over in his cold dark grave.

Disclaimers: They belong to Alliance.

Acknowledgments:
Maxine
Valerie King, research assistant extraordinaire -- she unearthed the tunnels and the number of Mounties assigned to each detachment in the NWT in the 1940s.
LaTonya, for legal historical research
Surfgirl for Chicago historical research, and film noir suggestions

Listen sweet-heart, cold hard cash is all well and good, but this is fanfic and I've got a writer's ego to feed. Pay up with feedback, got it? Send LOCs to gearbox@earthling.net, and no one gets hurt -- except in good ways.

It was just another steamy August day at the office. I sorted the mail, tossed the overdue bills in the trash, and ripped open the single remaining letter. No return address, postmarked from here in Chicago, and scented with flowery cheap perfume. Smelled promising.

Crash! It sounded like a buffalo'd tripped over the bike my neighbor leaves propped up in the hallway. I unsnapped the flap of my shoulder holster, just on general principle, and opened the door.

At my feet lay a hat. Not yer working-Joe cotton keep-the-sun-off hat, and not a fancy felted-wool man-around-town hat. It was a hat with style, but not a city style, a flat-brimmed Stetson. Just beyond it, a large finely shaped hand lay on the floor. I followed the hand to wrist, the wrist to the bright-red long-sleeved tunic, and the tunic to the face of an Adonis, a matinee idol. Black hair, not a strand out of place even on a sweltering day like today, even after that tumble. Blue eyes blinked up at me, still stunned from his fall.

I was suddenly aware of my undone tie, my rolled shirt sleeves. I didn't let it show on my face, though. I squatted, and handed the Stetson back to him. "Let me guess, you're new in town."

He rose to his knees. "Yes. Thank you kindly." He didn't hurry to stand, and we spent a minute taking in the view. He saw a sweaty private dick hunkered down on his skinny haunches. I saw something out of a dream. Not a speck of dust on him, not a trace of sweat. Perfect. Who was this guy, and did I love him or hate him?

He was looking for me, as it turned out. I settled him into the client's chair (the one without broken springs), offered him a smoke which he turned down. It was a shame, I woulda enjoyed watching those perfect red lips close around a cigarette.

"Mint?" I pulled the dusty candy jar out of the back of the top desk drawer. I kept it for the kids who tagged along with unhappily married ladies, or for the occasional good-looking teetotaller. I didn't offer Red anything to drink -- I'd finished off the bourbon in the bottom drawer last week. I brushed the worst of the dust off the cover and held it out to him.

"Yes, please."

He unwrapped the hard candy and popped it in his mouth, not too fast. I was mesmerized watching him suck on the lozenge. I thought I saw him watching me through his lowered lashes.

"You mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all."

I considered him while I lit up. If I wasn't mistaken, that was a Mountie dress uniform he had on. I'd heard a rumor about a crooked Mountie once, but that'd been from a compulsive liar. This guy looked like he could take care of himself -- at least on his home turf. If he was on official business here, he'd be talking to the cops. But here he was, sitting in my office. Curious and more curiouser.

"What can I do for you, Constable. . .?"

"Fraser. Benton Fraser. I need your help."

"Go on."

"I've come to Chicago on the trail of my father's killer --"

"Whoah, Red! That's what the Chicago police are for."

He looked away for just a moment. "Yes. I have contacted them. A Detective Vecchio has been assigned the case, but I suspect that a private investigator might be more. . . motivated to work on the case."

"Vecchio, huh? I hate his guts, but he's a not a bad cop. You saying he's stalling, or are there complications?"

He smiled, briefly. That little upturn of his lips was the prettiest thing that I'd seen in my office since Frannie quit. I still didn't know what the case was about, but I knew I'd be taking it.

"There are, as you say, complications. The foremost being that I am about to be arrested as a murder suspect, and I am unsure whether Detective Vecchio will continue to pursue the case while I am unable to assist him." He started unbuttoning that tunic, and my blood pressure started to rise. "I've taken the liberty of obtaining a copy of the casework for you," he reached into the stiff red serge, pulled out a battered manila folder, and handed it to me across the desk. Then, much to my regret, he buttoned the uniform back up.

"Ya know, here in Chicago, we usually carry papers in a briefcase."

I opened the slightly damp folder -- ah, he does sweat after all -- and glanced at the contents. Standard police file, but the handwriting wasn't Vecchio's. Without looking up, I said, "So, who'd you off?"

"Off? Oh, I haven't killed anyone. But I admit the circumstances make me a likely candidate for the police. I've eluded them for the time being, until I could retain your services. If possible, I would also like you to look into the second murder."

"All right then. Who's dead?"

"Alderman Orsini."

Jesus. I wished I had some bourbon left. Not that I hadn't wished the bastard dead myself, but I could tell this case was just going to be more fun than a can of worms. I glanced at the phone and then away. "Has anyone told the widow?"

"Mrs. Orsini was, in fact, with me at the time. We found the corpse together."

"How'd she take it?"

He blinked. That wasn't the question he'd expected me to ask. "She ah, was suitably horrified, but once past the initial shock, she coped admirably. Mrs. Orsini was quite professional about ensuring that no evidence be disturbed until the police arrived."

"Yeah, that sounds like her." Before he could comment on that, I hefted the file, "You know, even if you're cleared of the murder, taking this is obstruction of justice."

"I didn't remove the police file, I merely copied it. I would never obstruct justice."

"But you might occasionally obstruct the police?"

"Only when they are incorrect."

I couldn't help smiling. I told him my rates, he paid a deposit without quibbling, and we went over the case. Just as night was falling, I made a phone call to my old boss at the 27th. I told Welsh he could cancel the APB on Fraser. Then we sat in my office listening to the kids playing stickball outside and talking about this and the other.

"Why the fancy dress?" I asked.

"When I left Canada I was in rather a hurry to follow the trail of the killer. I didn't bother to pack a change of clothes."

"You were wearing your dress uniform when you heard about your Pop's death?"

"No, I left directly from the funeral."

"And that was. . ."

"Seven days ago."

I looked him over again. Either he was the best liar I'd ever met or he was a miracle on legs. No wrinkles, no stains, there wasn't even any lint on the uniform.

***********************

CHANGE OF POV (I haven't figured out what POV I'll end up in)

It takes the cops a while to get to the office. They play poker.

***********************

"Fold." Kowalski put down the cards he was holding. "So. Did you whack Orsini?"

"Excuse me?" Fraser suspected that the private investigator was actually upping the ante on another game, even as he bowed out of this round of poker.

"You hired me to look into Orsini's murder." Kowalski leaned forward, fore arms flat on the table. With his sleeves rolled up, his suit jacket off, and his tie undone, he should have looked sloppy, or at least relaxed. Instead, the disarray of his clothes somehow heightened the intensity of his eyes. He was watching Fraser with cop's eyes, judging reactions, intent. "You told me the cops are looking for you. From what I can tell, without talking to Mrs. Orsini or looking at the scene, you're an obvious suspect."

"I never met the man."

"But did you do him?"

"No."

"What about Mrs. Orsini. You do her?"

"What are you suggesting?"

"You know what I'm suggesting. Orsini had a powerful job, big bank account, beautiful wife. One of 'em probably got him killed."

"I didn't realized that Mr. Orsini had any of those advantages. I was referred to Mrs. Orsini in her professional capacity."

Kowalski looked disappointed in him. "I knew you were too good to be true. You didn't notice Stella's a looker?"

Fraser cracked his neck. "I, ah, I admit that Mrs. Orsini's quite attractive."

"Damn right, she is!" Kowalski replied, with something like satisfaction.

***********************

I'd expected patrolmen, but Welsh sent two of his detectives. I opened the door to Gardino and that smug bastard, Vecchio. All right, I might have to surrender my client to them, but I didn't have to let them into my office. I blocked the door.

"Hey Louis. Nice to see you. When'd you make detective?"

"Right about the time you quit, ya dumb Polack." Gardino showed affection through insults, so I figured we were still good. "How's the PI biz going? You still have that tasty dish working the phones for you?" Gardino also made a habit of stuffing his foot in his mouth, all the way up to his crotch.

"We're not here talk, we're here to pick up a murder suspect," Vecchio interrupted. He tried to shoulder past me, but I stood him off. Once I was sure he wasn't going to rush me, I turned my head. "Hey Red, time to get your hat. Your ride is here."

Vecchio said, "So what is this, you're harboring fugitives these days? How does that pay?"

"Don't be any dumber than you have to be, Vecchio. I called it in, let Welsh know where to find him. Run Fraser in if you got to, but you're going to have to cut him loose again. He didn't murder Orsini."

"No?" Gardino said, "Then who did?"

I shook my head. "Come to the table when you have something to put in the pot. Here's my number." I handed Gardino a card. Vecchio knew my number already.

By then Fraser was standing at my shoulder. I opened the door wider to let him out.

They cuffed him.

As the three of them started back down the hall, I said, "Oh, and Vecchio? Say hi to your little sister for me."

I got to give him credit, Vecchio didn't even slow down. He just said, "On a cold day in hell, Kowalski." And he kept walking.

Ray Kowalski never went undercover as Ray Vecchio. He was a cop, quit (for reasons that are explained later), and is now scraping by as a private investigator, with the attitude, if not the prose style, of a Raymond Chandler protagonist. At one time, Francesca Vecchio was his office assistant. He intensely dislikes her brother Ray. He smokes and drinks and doesn't volunteer the information that Stella is his ex-wife. He may be gay -- at the very least he has a fine appreciation for male beauty.

Fraser has, within a few hours of arriving in the Windy City, met several policemen including Ray Vecchio, met Stella Orsini on business, discovered her husband's corpse, met the intriguing Ray Kowalski, and been arrested on suspicious of Orsini's murder. He doesn't entirely trust the Chicago PD to investigate the murder, so he copied the case file (and his having the time to do that is just one of those DS whimsical impossibilities, like whittling a reproduction of "David" from a block of wood in a couple minutes.) He is severely out of his element, has lost his backpack, is temporarily Dief-less, and is spending money on lawyers and PIs at an appalling rate. Fraser is not having a good day, but he's covering as best he can. Which is pretty darned good -- this is Fraser, after all.

Francesca exists. Something about her past involvement with Kowalski pisses off her brother Ray.

Welsh exists, and is both Vecchio's boss and Kowalski's ex-boss.

Stella exists, is a lawyer (somewhat unusual but not unheard of at the time), was married to Ray Kowalski at one time but doesn't volunteer that information, was married to Orsini until he was murdered a couple hours ago, and has just met Fraser.

Maintain the Writer! Send Feedback to

or head back to the index