Marmalade and Sam

I work for Sam, see? I’m his right hand man. If anybody has a beef with him, they’ve got one with me, too. No dirty rat is gonna get behind him, not if I can help it.

Sam is a Detective Lieutenant on the Metro PD. The best one they’ve got. I’m from the Clan of Cat. We’ve got our own Syndicate, different from yours. I don’t mean a Mob Syndicate, see? Just different.

The name’s Marmalade, on account of my orange color. No wisecracks, either. Sam gave me that name, and he thinks I’m pretty darn handsome.

Sam and I have been together for a lot of years now, all good ones. But our first day on the job together was one for the books, and that’s nothing but the truth.

Sam fished me out of the trash bin behind his apartment building one cold winter morning, in nineteen-thirty-four. Some ape had tossed me in there, rather than be responsible for a kitten he didn’t want in the first place. What a jerk! Lucky for me, Sam saw him do it.

I was just a little guy, then. Barely weaned. I might have weighed a pound and a half, and then again I might not have. You might say Sam and me sort of chose each other, from the start.

Most people think Sam is the kind of hard-boiled, no nonsense, “cop with no heart,” they see in so many movies, but he ain’t like that at all. He just has to look the part at work, or nobody’d pay any attention to him, see?

Face chiseled right out of granite; looks like a smile would break it. Battered fedora, riveted onto his head. That’s Sam. But that’s not how he really is. Not with me, anyway.

The day he found me, he came in late to work, because he took off some personal time. Then he drove to Oakdale Pet Supply and bought a bunch of cat stuff he didn’t really have the dough for.

Let’s get one thing straight. I ain’t no pet. It might say “Pets” over the store where I get my groceries, but that’s not what I am, or ever was. I work for a living. I’m Sam’s backup man.

When we finally got to the Precinct House that first morning, Sam walked in just like nothing was different, but with me in the pocket of his overcoat; I had worked my head out, so I could see.

He set me down carefully on his desk, and went to the squad room coffee urn to fill his cracked old coffee cup that drips. Don’t ever let Sam hold that cup over your head, ‘cause you’ll get soaked, see?

By the time he got back with it, most of the guys in the station house were either laughing or looked like they wanted to.

The plainclothes could get away with it; the uniform grunts knew they couldn’t. They just hid their grins behind a newspaper or got busy with something while Sam glared around the room.

“Whatsamatter? None of you mugs ever seen an orange cat before? Well, get used to him. His name’s “Marmalade.”

“Gonna use him for a paperweight, are ya?” Sam whirled, bristling, but it was the Captain behind him. “Don’t look like he’d weigh enough.

“Call just come in, Sam; you got a dead body, a hundred and tenth street and Jefferson. Possible homicide. See the uniforms in apartment four-cee. Take “Marmaduke” with ya.”

“It’s Marmalade!”

“I don’t care if it’s strawberry jam. Take him with ya. I don’t need him under my feet here. I’ll have dispatch send a couple more uniforms for crowd control.”

Muffled chuckles made the rounds of the squad room again, as a grumbling Sam stuck me back in his pocket and headed back down the stairs and out to the car.

He’d have had more money if he wasn’t paying on his car, but that’s neither here nor there. Nobody asked me, anyhow.

It was a ’32 coupe, baby-blue. Only two years old, and an old lady only drove it to church. Yeah, right…

Sam needs a good car, see? Sometimes a perp will make him, and take off. Then Sam’ll have to go after him, and some of the bad guys’ve got the new Ford V8’s these days.

That’s what happened the day he went after Dillinger, see? It wasn’t Sam’s fault that crook lost him; it was his ride that wouldn’t cut it.

The next day he traded for a flathead Ford of his own. So that’s what he was driving when we met. I ride on the seat beside him. That’s my spot.

Hundred tenth and Jefferson is north of the river so it took us a while, in the rush hour traffic. Some chump in a T-Bucket milk truck was broke down in the middle of the bridge, see?

North of the river is a real armpit. Streetwalkers, bums and winos, and some guys just down on their luck. Up until the year before, it was a free zone for bootleggers, the ones that paid off a bag-man, I mean. The bottom dropped out of that racket when Prohibition was repealed, see?

Sam never did take a nickel’s worth of payola anyhow. He ain’t like that. He’s a straight arrow, and so am I.

There was a couple of expensive suits standing in front of a smoke shop across the street when we pulled up; too expensive for a neighborhood that was the next best thing to a Hooverville.

Nobody had that kinda dough in ’34, except maybe them that had made it big in liquor, during Prohibition. A couple of mob wise-guys [Anthony D1] then, who’d report back to one of the local Outfit bosses later.

Sam gave them his “Don’t get in my way” face, when we got out of the coupe. They’d be smart not to make themselves his business this morning; that was what he was telling them.

Sam was really puffing when we got to the top of the four flights of stairs to “four-cee.” Too many Lucky Strikes, but nobody could ever tell him that. One of these days they’ll figure out those things’ll kill ya. But nobody asked me.

Four-cee was a streetwalker’s crib. The tart had taken a powder, but the signs were unmistakable. The guy who croaked in there sure didn’t wear all them dame’s clothes lying around.

He wasn’t from this neighborhood, either; his suit was a tailor-made number, even more expensive than the two goons across the street had on. This was a few years into the Depression, see? Duds like that stuck out.

Sam turned to the uniform Sergeant, who was looking around. “What took him out? Don’t see no blood around the place. Who found him?”

“The building Super saw the door was open, and the tenant didn’t answer, so he went in to check. Got no cause of death yet, Sam. Don’t see no wounds on him, but they might be underneath. Look at his face and hands, though. That color sure ain’t natural.”

“No. It ain’t,” Sam said. “He looks way too red; kind of puffed up, too. Send one of your patrols to a call box and have somebody get a Medical Examiner up here. Don’t move him until the M.E. says it’s okay, see? Then search the body and see if you can ID him.”

Sam put me down on a table that was close to where the body had fallen, so he could poke around in the room. One of the uniforms laughed, but Sam just ignored him.

There was two chairs at the table, and on top was a bottle with a couple of shot glasses. One of the glasses was dry, but there was a little bit of liquor in the other one, so I sniffed at it. It was terrible! An acrid smell like death! I hissed and spat and started to back away from that thing. Nasty!

Sam whirled around, when I started raising a fuss, and grabbed me back up.

“What’s the matter, little guy?”

Of course there was no way I could tell him, so I glared back at the glass and spat again.

“He was smelling of the whiskey glass, Sam,” commented the Sergeant. “Kid don’t like liquor.”

“Nah, I took a belt on the way over, while we was stuck in traffic. He didn’t come unglued then. What is it, Marmalade?”

Sam looked thoughtful for a few seconds, and then got the flask out of his inside pocket. He unscrewed the lid and brought it closer to me.

“What about this one, buddy?”

I sniffed, but it was nothing but legit whiskey. Nothing like the terrible stuff in that glass. Sam shook his head, as he capped his hooch and slipped it back in his pocket.

Then it seemed to dawn on him, and he reached for the glass on the table. No! No way was I getting my nose near that nasty stuff again! I spat and struggled a bit, but Sam snatched it back away from me. He smelled the glass himself, but just shook his head.

“I don’t get it,” the uniform Sergeant said with a frown.

“I do,” Sam said after a moment. He set the shot glass carefully back on the table, and looked at me with new appreciation. He even smiled. He don’t do that more than twice a week, so when he does, it really matters.

“Tell the M.E. it’s a poisoning. It’s in the liquor, so have him get it tested. My little friend here has a better nose on him than we do, that’s all. It don’t surprise me.

“The Lab boys will be here in a few minutes; have ‘em get prints, especially on the bottle and glasses. Put ‘em in our files, and send them to the Feds, too. They ain’t gonna have anything on the dame; she’s just a local hooker, see? But they might on the guy.

“Get a name and description on the dame from the building Super, and get her in for questioning. I’ll see ya’s back at the Precinct.”

“Leavin’ already, Sam?”

“Sure. I got what I came for. The broad whacked him. I don’t have a motive yet, but that’s just shoe leather. It can wait till we bring her in. See if the neighbors saw anything, or heard any loud talking or yelling, while ya’s are resting.

“Me and my buddy here’re gonna find a beanery and get some breakfast. I didn’t even get to drink my coffee before this stiff complicated my life.”

Sam gently put me back in his pocket. We left the uniforms to take care of business. They and the Lab boys would collect what evidence there was. We went back down to the street.

The mob suits were still lounging across the street. This time Sam didn’t even spare them a glance. They probably knew all about the stiff upstairs, and for sure who the dame was, but there was no point in asking them anything, see? Wise-guys like them wouldn’t give their grandmother the right time of day, anyway.

We got back into the coupe and found a local greasy spoon, where Sam could enjoy his coffee in peace. The waitress didn’t like me being in there, much less sitting right on the counter grooming my whiskers. Sam just flashed his badge and told her to sit on it, see? He wasn’t in any mood for more nonsense, today.

Sam had his usual scrambled eggs and hash browns; I had a piece of bacon the guy sitting next to us gave me. Sam winked at him, and the guy grinned.

Some humans like cats, see? They just naturally have more going for them upstairs than the rest of their Clan. I can tell the first time I look at them. Some got it; some ain’t.

When we got back to the Precinct, the uniforms already had the dame in an interrogation room. The Squad Room Sergeant told Sam she hadn’t been far away. They’d found her on a bus station bench, with a ticket to Pittsburgh in her handbag.

The building Super ID’d her as the one who’d rented four-cee, when the uniforms drove her back down there; it was only eight blocks.

Dumb broad, I thought. A housecat has more brains than that! She should have taken the subway to another bus station across town, and bought her ticket there.

The thing was, she also had around twelve thousand dollars cash in that bag. I thought to myself: that much loot would buy an awful lot of tuna fish.

I could see the money was ringing bells for Sam, and the Sergeant, too. A low rent streetwalker don’t save up that kinda dough, see? Not in one lifetime, and not in no depression. She had to’ve taken it off the dead guy.

The Captain came up behind Sam. He don’t like that, see? But he has to put up with it from rank, so he kept his mouth shut.

“You were right about the poison, Sam,” he commented. “The M.E. just called in. The tests on the hooch won’t be back for a few days, but that red color and puffiness are classic symptoms of cyanide. That pretty much licks the stamp on the street walker. She knocked him off and then took his loot.”

“Maybe,” Sam said. “I got to get some things straight first, though. Something’s tickling the back of my mind. It’s too easy. It all lays out too pat.”

“I think you’re lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth, Sam. When it comes easy, take it that way, I say. And just so ya’s know, da cute little kitty ruins your tough-guy image.”

Sam muttered something under his breath about the other end of the horse, and then he opened the door to the interrogation room, and we went in. I could tell he had something else bothering him, see?

The dame was sitting at the table smoking a Pall Mall. She was a real looker, a tall redhead with a figure that just wouldn’t quit, and really ticked off about getting picked up. Too flashy, for my taste.

The plainclothes detective in the room with her turned when Sam and me came in. You could tell he wanted to laugh when he saw me, but he knew Sam too well for that; he just choked it down, and got straight down to business. It takes brass to interrogate a murder suspect with an orange kitten in your pocket, and Sam’s got plenty.

“She gave the name ‘Francine Sellers’ when they brought her in, Sam,” he said. “That checks out with the Super of her building. She’s been using the street name ‘Frankie.’ Her sheet shows a ‘Solicitation,’ and a couple of ‘Disorderly Conduct’ entries in the last five years.”

“Well, she’s moved up to the majors, this time,” Sam observed. “Suspicion of murder, for starters. What about it, Frankie? Wanna do yourself some good, and tell us what happened to the guy stretched out dead in your crib?”

“I ain’t done nothing!” she said, kind of shrill-like. You could tell she was scared, see? “I don’t know what happened to him! He just started choking and then fell over!” She was looking at me when she said it, not Sam.

“He took a belt of your liquor first though, didn’t he Frankie?” Sam moved closer to the dame and bent over, right in her face, like.

He does that; he tries to see how a suspect’s expression changes while being questioned. It rattles some of them, too. I growled at her a couple times; this was my first interrogation, and she scared me a little.

“It ain’t my liquor,” she pleaded. “You gotta believe me! And I’m allergic to cats, so keep that one away from me. I’ll get hives!”

“I do believe you, Frankie. At least about the whisky. You don’t make enough for that kind of good imported hooch. My little buddy ain’t going noplace, though. He’s part of the act.

“Now let’s talk about the cash. You rolled the stiff after he keeled over, didn’t you.”

Now Sam got real serious like, see? And he stayed right in her face, too. She tried to jerk back in the chair she was sitting in. Not from Sam, but from me, I saw. Okay, I thought.

I spat at the dame, when Sam said what he did about rolling the guy, just to put some frosting on Sam’s cake, see? She jerked again and tried to get up, but the other plainclothesman in the room put his hands on her shoulders and shoved her back down.

“The money, Frankie.”

“Okay, okay! I rolled him!” She choked a little on her cigarette, see, and then kept talking. “I was broke, and a guy in an expensive suit drops dead right in front of me. Of course I went through his clothes! He had the roll in his sock. But I never croaked him! Now please, back off with the cat!”

Sam leaned back away from her just a little, but then he said, “So ya’s made a bee-line for the nearest bus station with the dough. Didn’t call no doctor for him neither, even though ya’s didn’t have a thing to hide. Sure, Frankie, and pigs might fly, too.

“Besides, who said anything about croaking the guy? Maybe he had a bad heart.”

He got back in her face again, and I hissed and reached out with a paw’s worth of claws. Of course I couldn’t reach her; I was just a little guy then, see?

But it sure put the get-go into the redhead. I don’t know; some people just don’t like cats. That’s okay. I don’t like them much, neither. She kind of squealed and tried to get up again, and got slammed back down again.

“That’s what you meant though! That I killed him! Go on, tell me it ain’t! You’re tryin’ to pin it on me! I ain’t no killer; I said I’d get the guy up to my room, that’s all.

“Johnny was going to offer the guy a drink and talk to him about what he owed, that’s all. I told him no rough stuff in my place.”

‘Now we’re getting someplace,” Sam said. “Now tell me about this Johnnie. You work for him, right? He steers tricks your way?”

“No, no! It ain’t nothing like that! Johnnie’s my sweetheart. He really cares for me, see? He’d do anything for me.”

Now the dame was crying, on account of she could see her whole story was unravelling like a Hong Kong suit.

The other plainclothes in the room sort of snickered, and Sam said, “Yeah, well. If ya’s believed that, ya probably believed him when he said all he was gonna do was drink with the guy.”

“Look!” she sobbed. “The guy owed Johnny back interest on a loan he took out, that’s all I know. Ten points a week on some paper about a month old. Johnny wanted to talk to him about it, but the guy was ducking him, see?”

Sam pondered this for a minute or two, and I stopped spitting and throwing a fit. The broad was starting to talk, see? We figured, Sam and me, let her simmer down a bit and she might keep right on.

Sam looked at the other plainclothes cop in the room and said, “Keep Frankie company for a bit, Bert. She wants a glass of water or something to eat, get it for her. I got some stuff I wanna check out.”

Bert nodded to Sam, and we went back out into the squad soom. Sam fished out a Lucky and lit up. Then he tossed the match away and motioned to the uniform Sergeant in charge, with his chin, like.

The uniform waved back and headed over to where we were. “Yeah, Lieutenant? Getting anything outa the dame?”

“Some,” Sam said. “Pick up a guy for questioning for me, will ya Sarge? He goes by “John Joseph Trudeau.” Might be using a street name: ‘Johnny Walker.’ He’s got a rat-hole office on North Dekker and about Ninety-first street.”

“Who is he, Sam?”

“Local shylock with Outfit connections. They sometimes let him use their knee-breakers, when he can’t collect on a loan, and they get a piece of it.”

Sam headed for the stairs, with me still in his coat pocket with my head sticking out, like he had a peach in there, see? I liked that just fine, on account of I could see everything.

“Sam, before ya’s take off again, the uniforms found some ID on the stiff,” the Sarge said. “He was ‘Jacob Roland Stein,’ Detroit address, but one of the boys thinks he’s seen him around here. Gambler. He follows the card games around, here and some back East. Used to follow ‘em, I oughta say.

“Oh, and we tried matching the prints from the glasses and bottle to the dame’s, once we inked her this morning.”

“Let me guess.” Sam said. “Her prints don’t match anything on the glassware.”

“How’d ya’s know, Sam? Stein’s, but not hers, right as rain.”

“The broad didn’t whack him, Sergeant.

“Hold her on suspicion for now, and keep her on ice. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Sure thing, Sam.”

We took off then, with me still bobbing around in that pocket. The guys at the Precinct was getting kind of used to me by then, so nobody laughed, this time.

Anything Sam decides to do, they better get used to it, is all I’ve got to say. He ain’t changed on account of what anybody else thought, since the Wilson Administration. If he wanted an orange kitten for a partner, that was his business, see?

Besides, I was beginning to enjoy the work. I’d already seen more action in one morning, than I had in my whole life, up until Sam found me.

Me and Sam went back north of the river, to a gin mill Sam knew held craps and poker games in their back room. The guy that ran it owed Sam a favor, see?

Sam coulda closed the joint down anytime, but he figured the guy didn’t hold a gun on the jokers that gamble there. If they wanted to throw away their money like that, what’s it to him?

So the gent was more than willing to tell Sam everything we needed to know. He liked cats, too; he gave me a piece of the fried chicken his wife had dropped off for his lunch, and said I was a “fine addition to the police force.” I got down to play around a little on the floor, while we was in there; he had some good dust-bunnies under his table.

It was still a little shy of noon, when we walked back into the Precinct with the rest of the pieces that were still missing from this morning’s murder case. The uniforms had just brought in the Trudeau character, and the Sergeant was taking down his info at the desk.

Trudeau glared at Sam as we walked up, and then he saw me and kind of smirked. I gave him a sibilant little hiss, just to show what I thought of him, and the jerk actually laughed. That was a mistake.

“Book ‘Johnnie’ here for Murder One, Sergeant,” Sam said with a rare grin. “He offed the dead guy at hundred and tenth and Jefferson Avenue last night.”

The Captain came up behind us again; Sam don’t like that, see? But he was in too good a mood to squawk much, this time.

“Run it by me, Sam,” he said. “I don’t see how it lays out.”

“Stein was losing heavy at poker, Cap, at a joint I know up on Van Buren. He took out paper with a shylock to cover the debts; this guy I just had picked up. ‘John J. Trudeau.’ He was Frankie’s sweetheart, to hear her tell it.

“But then Stein won big at last night’s game, and walked away from the table with nearly twelve grand in his sock, and word got back to Trudeau P.D.Q. Stein only owed the shy around five G’s, see? But Trudeau figures to get it all.

“So he has his girl get the guy up to her crib, where he’s waiting. Stein goes with her, because he knows he can pay off what he owed, and has nothin’ to worry about. Trudeau offers him a drink in the room; he takes it and gets the Big Mickey Finn, the one where they send flowers to your widow, see?

“Then Trudeau tells the broad to get his roll and take off with it, out of town, till things cool off. She’s probably got a maiden aunt or something in Pittsburgh. I expect he was planning to meet her there later, and take the dough off her.”

“That’s pretty slick, Sam.” The Captain nodded. “For a flatfoot with a baby cat in one pocket and his thirty-eight in the other, that is.”

Sam glowered when he heard that, but didn’t say nothing.

“What do we do with the dame? Arraign her as an accessory?”

“Nah. Just turn her loose. Frankie never knew Trudeau was going to kill the guy. She thought he was just going to have a drink with him and get the money he was owed. Frankie took off with the dough like he told her, but I figure she was scared of him, after what he did to Stein.

“Take her back to the bus station. Maybe her ticket to Pittsburgh is still good. Find out where she’ll be staying, when we need her back to testify.”

“That’s pretty slick, Sam,” the Captain said again. And ya’s did it all before lunch time. Oh, and one more thing, Sam. What’s the name of your dog?”

“What dog? I ain’t got no dog!” Sam’s eyes widened; he was taken off guard. That hardly ever happens, see?

“I wanna know the name of your dog.”

“I think yer losin’ your head, Cap. I ain’t never had no dog in my life.”

“Your new partner there, Sam.” The Captain motioned toward me, with my bright orange head and ears poking out of Sam’s overcoat pocket. “I want you should tell me he’s a dog.”

“Marmalade?”

“Say he’s a dog, Sam. You can’t bring pets into the Precinct House. But you can have a big, nasty police dog.”

“Captain, Marmalade is the biggest, nastiest police dog anybody ever saw. And he ain’t going noplace, so get used to him. He’s my partner.”

END

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[Anthony D1]