At the precinct Detective Lance Drecker walked slowly and calmly back to his office, calmyly closed the door and drew the blinds, laid some case files on his desk and then nearly put his fist through the heavy bag he kept in his office for just such a purpose. He'd just spent the better part of an hour being chewed out by his Captain while suffering through the worst hang-over it had ever been his displeasure to survive. Banana Whiskey was an all purpose, evil brew that could double for paint remover in a pinch. But if Man or for that matter Ape wanted to get shit-faced drunk it would do the trick but quick. Captain Quirk was of the new breed of cop. The kind that carried a diploma instead of a black jack. The kind that believed in methodical scientific police work instead of a back alley work over. Quirk wouldn't have turned to Drecker except that with Tully on vacation, O'leary out with burns suffered at his mom's farm, and Baker suffering a skull fracture courtesy of a macaque hopped up on doped bananas, he'd had no choice. His disdain for Drecker gushed like water from a broken hydrant. Something was going on in his precinct and he wanted answers.
First the baboon known as Elmo, a.k.a. "Singing Elmo", a.k.a. "Tickle Me Elmo", had been found on the pavement outside his gang's hangout. Defenstrated the report had said. Drecker had had to dust off his dictionary to look up the damn word. Couldn't the cop who wrote the report just have said Elmo had been thrown through a window? It was enough to give a guy a headache if he already didn't have one. "Smart Ass rooky" he thought. Just to be sure he was right about the rookie, he pulled out the card the rookie had given them when they'd met a week earlier. No words on it, just a drawing of a penis outlined in chalk. Dick Tracie, that was his name. Drecker was right, smart ass rookie, wouldn't amount to a hill of damn beans in his estimation.
The second piece of the jigsaw was a missing mob enforcer from Miami called Fat Freddy. The feds had put a tail on him when he left Miami but they'd lost him on Chicago's waterfront. A leading mob heavy dropping out of sight made both the feds and Captain Quirk very nervous. If Fat Freddy remained on the loose who knew what hell might break loose.
Then there was the curious shoot out between members of the West End Gorillas that nobody seemed to want to talk about. It was almost as if it was an accident the way they hung there heads in embarrassment and muttered .
Last but not least, and probably the straw that broke Quirk's back was the death of Chachi and the near outright demolition of Joeys. Drecker had liked Joeys. Bit of a greasy spoon but an all right joint for a late night cup of joe. It was with this last piece that Drecker found a break. Chachi had been a sometime associate of his friend Chongo. If anyone could help him put together these seemingly unconnected events it would be Chongo. He'd remained friends with Chongo after Chongo had been discharged from the force. Chongo didn't know it but the bat that had shattered his knee had been meant for Drecker. Chongo had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sure they acted the part of gumshoe and hard bitten cop but it was just that, an act. Drecker knew that Chongo couldn't do his thing if his clients thought that the cops would be in on everything, especially those clients that didn't want the police involved in the first place.
When the feeling had returned to his fist he put on his holstered .38 special. Six inches of cold blue steel sanctioned by the Chicago Police Dept. Nice gat for dealing with your normal human scum, but worth a shit against some overgrown hairy mountain gorilla. He reached into his desk and pulled out his personal favorite, an Army issue M 1911 A .45 caliber semi-auto pistol given to him personally by Colonel Thomson after he'd helped the Colonel after a particularly interesting R & R weekend in the Windy City. He hefted it's weight in his hand. Hell of a kick, but what you knocked down with this hand cannon stayed the hell down. Drecker slid it into a hide away holster at the small of his back. With his beat-up Fedora and his overcoat he was ready to pay a visit to his old friend.
Out in the garage he passed by the marked cars as well as the unmarked. Every primate in town wouldn't hesitate to take a pot shot at him in one of those. He stopped and got into his personal car, a 1933 Cadillac in Banana Yellow. No one knew where he'd gotten it from and everyone was smart enough not to ask. Although Drecker didn't care for the color it had been a gift to him from the original Mr. Big, The King, Mr. Kong himself. Being a cop in a world over run with gangsters meant sometimes letting your problems take care of each other. Kong had been more than happy with the tips Drecker had secretly given him and for the misdirection of the police while Kong's pride had "removed" a Chicago gang that was trying to muscle in on the Big Apple's action. Drecker had genuinely liked Kong in a way. Sure he was an island boy led astray by the bright lights and big city, but there had been something special about him. Well, at least Kong had been somebody you could look up to he grinned. Unfortunately Kong had over reached even his massive grip, probably pushed on by that dame Fay that he'd gone ape over. The feds had taken Kong out on the Empire State building while he was pulling off his biggest heist. Drecker still had the Tribune that had chronicled Kong's death under the banner headline "The King Has Left The Building". The Caddy was a custom job with a high powered engine. The only one like it in the world, let alone Chicago. In it he was as safe as a baby in even the roughest part of town. Nobody would touch it. Even if the police didn't know who it had come from, the gangs did. Even the Macaques who had a fetish for tearing off and chewing on windshield wipers wouldn't touch it out of respect for the memory of the King. Yes the King was gone, but he was not forgotten.