Users and Losers
The third Jack Larson story appeared in the September 1995 issue of Kracked Mirror
Mysteries. Story copyright 1995, William D. Cissna.


My office is a 10 foot by 12 foot rectangle on the second floor of a two story rat trap just off the main drag of a
once upscale Pittsburgh suburb, featuring two cracked leather armchairs for guests, a desk I got for $65 at an
office equipment fire sale, a heavy war-surplus filing cabinet and a metal swivel chair with shredding
upholstery and a noisy set of springs. All set on a carpet of indeterminate age and color.
Definitely the stylish digs for the gentleman entrepreneur of the Nineties.
But I can look up at any time and read my name backwards on the door, along with "INVESTIGATIONS." My
neighbors are rarely around, and the rent's laughable unless no one knocks on the door or makes the phone
ring.
October had been that kind of month. None too soon, the tap came on the door early that Monday morning.
Early for me is 10 o'clock.
The woman who walked through the door looked tall standing, and still looked tall when I got her to sit down.
She wasn't exactly sobbing, but she was wet and the handkerchief with the lace and the embroidered initial
fluttered about the eyes and nose enough to give the impression she was unhappy as hell about something.
She was pretty enough, in a thin sort of way. The dress had clearly been cut for her, accentuating the long
legs but giving away little about the figure beneath it. She had beautiful blonde hair, done by an expert, and
understated makeup that nonetheless brought out the cool blue eyes. Unquestionable style. I could tell she
came from Virginia Manor, not Dormont. The whole effect spoke money.
"Jack Larson?" she said in that kind of melodic voice you wished you could hear on the pillow next to you but
mostly picked up only on the radio or TV.
I nodded my head sagely. I knew my name.
"Mr. Larson, my husband is missing."
Ah, that old tune. If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard it, I could move to a fancier office.
"What makes you think he's missing?" I asked her, the standard opening gambit.
"He was supposed to come home from a business trip and take me to a play in town. He didn't, I missed the
play and he's still not shown up." She snuffled a bit at this part.
"When was this?"
"Two nights ago. Saturday night."
"Have you informed the police?"
"Yes, last night. They didn't seem very worried."
Also standard operating procedure. Men were known to go missing for any number of reasons. Often they
would reappear later, maybe sheepish, maybe defiant and without explanations. Other times, they'd be gone
forever, never to be heard of again, except maybe on an autopsy report. I explained some of that to her.
"But I thought the police were supposed to help find missing people," she spluttered.
"Oh, they are, eventually. But with murders and rapes and burglaries on their list, he'll have to be gone
longer before they'll sit up and pay attention. What's his name, by the way?"
"I'm sorry. Joe. Joe Catano. And mine's Phyllis. Sorry."
"No big thing, Phyllis. You live somewhere in Virginia Manor, right?"
She looked up, startled. "How did you ...." Then she smiled, and those blue eyes sparkled for the first time.
"Never mind. You're a detective, aren't you? We're over in the old section, that stone one on Londonderry."
I nodded my head again. I knew the house. Serious money for sure, or at least serious debt. The street was
only a block long. So was the house. "What does your husband do?" seemed the next logical question.
"He sells munitions, arms, something like that."
That was sufficiently vague, but I didn't pursue it. "And you?"
"The usual. Women's club, country club, bridge club. Keep up with the hired help. And other such wifely
duties."
"No job, though." I made it a statement.
"Some volunteer work, but I don't contribute to the day to day income, if that's what you mean. A little trust
account from Daddy helps keep me in shoes, though." She was getting huffy.
"Okay, no offense intended. Tell me more about Joe, where he works, who his friends are, that sort of thing."
She filled me in for a while about his habits and such, then we talked money. It didn't seem to be a problem.
"Joe just isn't the type to run off without announcing it, Mr. Larson. Besides, he's in the middle of a big deal
right now. Spending some money to locate him is bound to be less than what he'll lose if this sale falls
through. Will you look for me?"
I nodded my head one last time, got her to sign the standard contract and took a check for $300.00, one day's
retainer, before herding her out the door. Time to get to work.
My office may not be much, but it is convenient. Within a block are a bank (where I went first with Ms.
Catano's check), a drug store, a greasy spoon restaurant and Town Hall, the lower floors of which belonged to
the township police department. I went there second.
A familiar face sat behind the Plexiglas window with the round voice hole underneath the somewhat
misleading sign reading "Information." In my experience, the department cared little for sharing information
with me, and I supposed even less so with the common citizen.
"Hey, Elmer, how goes it?" I asked of the pudgy, squinty eyed man holding himself up with the cluttered,
laminate shelf on the other side of the window.
"Larson," Elmer Smith grunted.
I'm sure some Elmers must hold intellectual discussions or write treatises on philosophy. I've just never met
one. The Elmers I know and imagine drive small Chevrolets with rust spots, speak in grumpy monosyllables
and equate "intellectual" with "subversive." Like this Elmer.
"Elmer, I hear you got a missing persons on a Joe Catano. Anything turn up on it yet?"
"Dunno. Maybe." Smith shuffled a few papers around the tabletop, grunted again and asked, "When'dit come
in?"
"Yesterday. Probably last night."
"New blood." Smith grabbed another pile and leafed through it. "Here it is. Catano. Hasn't been gone long."
"I know. Who's got it?"
"The case? Jenkins. Doubt he's done anything."
"Me, too. Just tell him for me I'm on it, too. Wife hired me."
Smith shook his head. "Guy'll show up."
"Probably. Gotta look anyway."
"Yeah. Well, I'll rush right up there and let Jenkins know." He showed no signs of rushing anywhere. I  
headed out. I'd done my civic duty. And I couldn't take more than about five minutes of Elmer Smith in any
case.
I strolled far back into the side streets, where the parking was free, to my three year old Taurus. At least it
wasn't an Elmer car. I pushed it from the suburbs through the Fort Pitt Tunnel, across the Mon and into the
maze of the Golden Triangle, Pittsburgh's downtown area.
After a few false turns, I found both the right tall glass spire and an open parking lot with no "filled" sign
near it. Near miracles.
I investigated the building directory, discovered the floor for Catano & Associates and, with only one question
to the guard, found the right bank of elevators to reach the upper floors. Some detective.
A gorgeous young woman in clothes that betrayed the poor judgment of youth occupied the sharp edged,
chrome and glass receptionist's desk. A discreet placard said "Angelique." I said it too.
"Can I help you?" she responded in bell like tones.
"Has Mr. Catano come in yet?"
"Why, no, he hasn't. Do you have an appointment?"
"If he hasn't come in yet, then he's still missing, so that means I'm still looking for him," I explained, then
asked to see Joseph Romano, Catano's right hand man. She was sufficiently impressed by my looks and my
profession to dig "Joey" up in less than half an hour.
Joey had little to offer. He had heard from Phyllis Catano, but not Joe. Yes, there was a major deal underway.
No, the trip Mr. Catano had taken was not connected to that deal. Yes, he should have been back by now. No,
he did not know of any enemies of Mr. Catano who might have delayed his return.
I ascertained the schedule for Mr. Catano's airline trip. Mr. Romano claimed not to know what happened to
the company if Mr. Catano disappeared or died. Asked about Mr. Catano's love life, Joey Romano rolled his
eyes. "Who knows? Maybe. He coulda had somebody on the side. Nothin' serious, though."
"Angelique?"
"Why not? Who hasn't?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know. Tell me about the business."
Romano clammed up and suggested I ask Mr. Catano. I reminded him Mr. Catano might not be able to tell
me. He didn't seem to care.
Interview over, I borrowed a phone line from Angelique and put in a call to Phyllis Catano while
surreptitiously studying the cleavage of the receptionist's unfortunate but alluring blouse. I finished the call
and gave Angelique a fond farewell. She fed back a look that would have stopped younger, braver men at
twenty paces.
I untangled myself from downtown and headed out on the miraculous Parkway West, dodging potholes all the
way to Greater Pittsburgh Airport. I went inside the aging old building long enough to learn that the USAir
flight to Newark the previous Thursday morning and the return Saturday afternoon had indeed flown, on
time, even. Both ways!
I used a pay phone to call a number in New York City surrendered to me by Joey Romano after informing me
that frivolous use of it might be bad for my health. While this did not leave me quivering, why tempt fate?
Confirmation, that's all I wanted. And that's all I got. Catano had been in NYC and left, or at least had gone to
Newark airport.
I headed out to the parking lots. I figured Catano for the kind of guy who would pay short term rates even for
long term stays, which was true, because the white Town Car with the blue interior Phyllis had described sat
right there in the lot closest to USAir.
That was the easy part.
The rest began with the scratches all over the trunk lock and the hardened, brownish drops scattered around
the asphalt and the white dividing line to the left of the car.
Airport parking lots have very confusing jurisdictions. By the time I got home, airport, county and township
police had danced with me, and I'd called Earl Jenkins in Mount Lebanon as a professional courtesy. He could
change "missing person" to "homicide," unless Joe Catano was very clever and had been able to shoot
himself four times in the back of the head after locking himself in his own trunk, in which case Jenkins could
mark in "suicide." Not likely.
I slept fitfully and woke early, still seeing that crumpled figure shoved in the trunk with a spare tire, a tire
iron, a briefcase and a small suitcase.
When it was late enough, I called Phyllis Catano, who had already talked to plenty of cops. She seemed to be
holding up well. So I asked the question: "Are we done or do I continue?"
"I asked you to find him, and I guess you did," she said. "Not much more, is there?"
"We could find out who killed him."
"I suspect that's the police's job, Mr. Larson. It shouldn't be too hard. He did business with some rough people.
Surely they killed him."
"What about the people he worked with?"
"Meaning?"
"Well, what happens to Romano with Joe dead?"
"Joey? I'm not sure. The company goes on even after Joe's death. You don't mean ..."
"I don't know anything. But ... let's just say that organized crime has found some very classy businesses that
nicely disguise the vital task of washing money."
"Organized crime?" she said, trying, I thought, to sound surprised. "I don't know. Perhaps. Or some foreign
country got cheated on a gun deal, or a terrorist group, or something."
"But you don't want me to look into it?"
"No, sorry, no," she sighed. "But please send me an invoice for your work."
Actually, I'd only earned what she'd already paid me, and told her so. She offered me a bonus. I passed, said
thanks anyway and hung up.
I decided I had nothing pressing at the office and picked up the phone. Jenkins confirmed that he and the
others agreed with Phyllis Catano:  mob rubout, or disgruntled customer. No one though much of the inside
job angle. And Jenkins thought even less of another concept I shared with him.
So I went my own way, making a few more calls and a personal visit to the First Citizen's Bank down near
Virginia Manor.
After some appropriate deception there, I drove on up into the Manor itself. Having just been in my own
apartment, the house on Londonderry seemed huge, but it probably only had twenty-six rooms or so.
I parked my suddenly shabby car behind a dark blue Sedan DeVille near the door. I swallowed hard,
momentarily unsure, then marched up to the huge wooden doors and pounded the knocker into the brass plate.
She answered the door herself, looking lovely and thin in a sharply tailored, pale blue dress. Mourning wear
must have changed. She let me in, reluctantly, and I got to meet Joey Romano for the second time in 24 hours.
"Consoling the widow?" I asked him. He offered a crooked grin, lost it and backed off into a corner of the
cavernous living room. Ms. Catano took center stage, sitting on a long upholstered thing. I stood.
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" she said formally but with a twinkle in those blue eyes. "Did you
decide to take the bonus after all?"
"No, ma'am. I just came to ask you a question. I've already figured out why you hired me. But there's still this
question."
"Really? What's that?"
"Can you have an important man killed for only a thousand dollars these days?"
She jerked ever so slightly, but she was good. She recovered quickly. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Well, you hired me to find your husband, literally, because you knew somebody had to, and you look good to
the cops since you instituted the search. But there's the matter of the grand you took out of your little trust
account last week. I think you used it to hire a hit man."
"How in the hell did you know about ..."
"Imagine that I went to your bank and pretended to be someone I'm not. And that they showed me your recent
account records. You still have the thousand?"
"Why, no. But I do have some lovely new clothes upstairs. Would you care to see them?"  she said. And
smiled, damn her.
"You inherit all this, I suppose. And Joey's the new president of Catano & Associates?"
"That's reasonably accurate."
"And your husband was murdered by the mob, or the Arabs, or the IRA, or whatever."
"Most likely. One of those."
"Not you?"
"I was home with five other people, including Mr. Romano, at the time when my husband was shot."
"What a surprise!"
"I did not kill my husband. I resent the implication."
"I'm sure you do. I just wanted you to know I know."
"No proof."
"No proof. Unless some pro hitman gets caught and turns you in someday. I guess you'll just have to learn to
sleep with that."
"Amusing, Mr. Larson." She didn't look amused. "You may leave now."
I couldn't resist one last shot. "Watch your back, Romano," I called across the room. He looked up at me
quizzically. "She may get tired of you someday too, you know." I turned to go. "Thanks for the job, Ms.
Catano."
"Don't worry, Mister Larson," she spat. "I stopped payment on your check."
I laughed, because it felt funny at the moment.
But after I'd driven home, I thought about something I'd read:  in our galaxy alone, we have a hundred billion
stars. And there are a hundred billion galaxies in the universe. Odds are, a thousand or so other orbiting
chunks of rock out there have also spawned something loosely called "civilization."
After the first couple of beers -- and after I'd called Earl Jenkins, told him what I knew and suspected only to
hear a yawn after I admitted lack of evidence -- I reached a conclusion. In every one of those "civilizations,"
including ours, there were users and losers. I knew which one Phyllis Catano was, and felt a bit sorry for Joe
Catano, the wise guy loser.
I finally gave up trying to decide where I fit, and went to sleep instead.
# # #
Jack Larson tales
- by Bill Cissna
To read the first
Jack Larson short
mystery, "Follow
the Money," click
here.

To read the second
Jack Larson short
mystery, "The
Newspaper Man,"
click here.

To return to the
main Fiction page,
click here.