The Leather Duke

Harry Towner hurried off to a cubicle and Johnny and Sam exchanged significant glances. The ghost of a smile played over Johnny’s lips.

“Dinner, Sam.”

“Can you bull him through to the dessert, Johnny?” Sam asked eagerly. “It must be two years since I’ve had any.”

“The desserts at the Lakeside are the finest in Chicago,” Johnny said. “I hope.”

Harry Towner came out of the little cubicle in a few minutes, knotting a Brooks Brothers tie. “All right, gentlemen,” he said, “we’ll just run down to the grill room. A little quieter there than the main dining room.”

“How’s the grub?” Sam asked.

Towner looked at him sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

“The food, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, quickly. “Mr. Cragg is a bit of a gourmet, you might say.”

“Yeah, you might say,” said Sam Cragg.

“I like good food myself,” Towner rumbled. “That’s the only fault I find with the cuisine here — you can’t get a good steak.”

“You can’t?” cried Sam.

Towner shook his head sadly. “They don’t know enough to buy meat ahead. A steak’s got to hang for a couple of months or it’s no good.”

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Towner,” enthused Johnny. “There’s a little spot in Los Angeles, that is, in Santa Monica, down by the beach, where they really know how to cook a steak. They hang them in a cellar for three months, then scrape off the whiskers and put them on the fire...” Johnny rolled his eyes upwards. “That’s a steak for you, sir!”

By this time the trio had descended a broad flight of stairs and entered a grill room that occupied about half of the entire third floor. Soft lights lit up each table and white-jacketed waiters moved smoothly in and out among the tables. A headwaiter led them to a table on a balcony raised a few feet above the main floor and brought them large menus.

Harry Towner looked at the card and shook his head. “You’ve given me an appetite for a steak, Mr. Fletcher,” he said, sadly, “but they’re simply impossible here. I believe I’ll just have a watercress salad and a glass of skim milk.”

“Oh, no!” groaned Sam.

Johnny said: “I’m a glutton for punishment, Mr. Towner. I’ve said over and over, just how bad can a steak be? And I’ve said to myself, never again, but” — he smiled brightly — “I’ll try once more.” He looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have a filet mignon and tell the chef to do his worst. Mr. Cragg, will you have the same?”

“With French fries,” cried Sam, “and smothered in onions. And a big piece of apple pie — naw, make that apple pie a la mode. And all the trimmings with the dinner. I’m hungry.”

“Why, Sam,” Johnny chided, “you are hungry!” He laughed merrily. “So am I, for that matter. Do you know, Mr. Towner, we actually worked today. Gives you a terrible appetite when you’re not used to it.”

“Yes, I imagine so,” conceded Towner. He placed his forearms upon the table and leaned forward. “And now, sir, if you’ll tell me what’s going on in my leather factory...”

“Ah yes,” said Johnny.

“Yeah, Johnny,” agreed Sam, “go ahead, tell him.”

“Go right ahead, Mr. Fletcher. I’m not one of these men who can’t talk business while eating. You just tell me the whole story.”

“Very well, sir, a horrible crime was committed in your factory today. A murder.”

“Yes, yes, I know that. Go on, Fletcher.”

“I’ll have to bore you with a little background, Mr. Towner,” Johnny said, “necessary background, so you’ll understand the complete ramifications and meaning of this crime. You’ve heard of the Mafia...?”

“The Mafia?” exclaimed Towner.

“The Black Hand, as it is commonly known in this country.”

“But that’s been dead for twenty-five years...”