Isidore Haiblum

From the Casebooks of Morris Weiss

"Lowlifes shoot first and ask questions later - if the victim is still alive. Private detectives can't do that. What they can do is shoot straighter than lowlifes and duck at the appropriate time. This I have been doing for years now. I attribute my longevity to it and the consumption of fresh fruits and vegetables."

"There are no uncle-and-nephew private detective teams in literature as far as I know. And unless some smart young fellow writes a book about us, so it will remain."

"In the old days, the Lower East Side often felt like a small country. A nickel would take you from one end to the other. What a bargain!"

First Chapter:

Chapter I

Crime doesn't pay if you are caught and can't afford a good lawyer. Unless, of course, you know a private detective who can get you off scot free. There are few still around. But modesty prevents me from naming the very best.

"Find Lefkowitz," Grosebard said. "We will pay."

"With what?" Shmulevitch demanded. "We will steal from the burial fund?"

"God forbid." Fefer said. "The strike fund has plenty of money."

"So," Shmulevitch said, fixing him with a beady eye, "you will steal then from the strike fund?"

"What steal?" Greenberg said, a touch of outrage in his voice. "When was the last time there was a strike at The Forward? The money sits and does nothing. Our paper was once a socialist paper. We have a tradition of supporting our workers."

They were seated at one end of a long table, Morris Weiss and the five union representatives. It was mid-February and snowing outside. The windows of the sixth floor conference room were frosted over. The sound of traffic from the streets below was distant and ruffled. As though they were in a sealed off world of their own.

Weiss sighed.

Why was everything so hard with these people? You speak to one of them and everything is hunky-dory. But just try to work out something with more than one and you play with your life.

"I won't take money from the strike fund," Weiss said, "and that's flat."

His father, Weiss knew, would have approved. He
always held strike funds to be sacrosanct.

Sitting back comfortably in his chair, the detective
waited for further developments. He knew that with this crew there would be some if he were only patient. Being patient was something he knew how to do. It came with the job. Although he wasn't crazy about this particular aspect of the job.

Morris Weiss was not only the best dressed man
in the room, but at twenty-nine, also the youngest. He had on a three piece, chalk-striped black suit, a white shirt with starched caller, and a green and gold paisley tie. Idly, he ran a thumb over his black mustache, and watched the others through half-lidded eyes.

The fifth man, tall, cadaverous and stooped, now spoke
up for the first time. "My printers will pay," he
said. "Lefkowitz is a brother in good standing. We will do the right thing
by him."

Grosebard turned to Weiss.

"You are in agreement?"

The detective shrugged.

"Why wouldn't I be?"
Grosebard frowned.

"Don't give me riddles. A simple yes or no will do."

Weiss nodded.

"Then let it be a simple yes," he said.

Grosebard glared around defiantly.

"Settled!" he shouted. And slammed his hand down on the table.