Morelli bent down to the frightened woman. She had brown hair and a black dress. It wasn’t Gladys Hart after all. His heart slowed from its frantic pounding.
“Step back, give the lady some room,” he shouted, helping her to her feet. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“She’s just fine. Let her be.” The dandy with her seemed more concerned about Morelli than the rough crowd around them.
“Sir, I can help you both out. This crowd is dangerous.”
“We’ll be just fine.” He put his arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her up the stairs. Morelli watched them go with a shake of his head. Some men are just too prideful for their own good.
Morelli continued down the stairs toward the ring, where the reporters continued to pound on their typewriters, getting the news of Dempsey’s stunning knockout ready for the world. The noise of the crowd was making his head pound again. He found a spot to wait out the worst of it. No need to fight against the tide now.
Chapter Thirteen
The Club
Aaron wasn’t ready to go home. “Take us to the Golden Ruby, Sam.”
A nightcap at his club was just the thing. He hadn’t taken Angel to the speakeasy before, but he was sure she’d enjoy it. There were always some amusing people hanging around. The club was private. You needed to know the password to gain entrance and Aaron made sure that it wasn’t given out to just any Tom, Dick or Harry. He wasn’t above making some money off the hooch but he had an image to maintain, as well.
They drove in silence through the late-evening traffic and Aaron fiddled with the cigar in his pocket. Angel stared out the window at the passing lights. When they pulled in front of the Golden Ruby, Aaron opened the door and helped her out. George Clancy was manning the door and quickly let them in as soon as he saw Aaron through the peephole. The joint was nearly full. Smoke wafted in a cloud near the ceiling and the sounds of jazz came in from the far room.
“Good evening, Mr. Hart. I didn’t expect to see you tonight. I thought you had tickets to see the fight?”
“Hello, George. We did see it and it was something else. Dempsey put a beating on that grease ball and finished him off in two short rounds. How’s everything here?”
“Busy, but everyone’s behavin’ themselves tonight. Jack Hynes is in the back bar. He was askin’ for you when he came in.”
“What does he want?”
“He didn’t say, Mr. Hart, but he had a sharp look in his eye.”
“Thanks, George, I’ll look out for him.” Aaron put his arm around Angel and drew her into the main room. “Let’s go get a drink, Angel.”
“Sure, Aaron.”
Aaron was hailed from several tables as they made their way through the room. All the talk was about the Dempsey fight. The dark wood of the tables and booths shone in the light of the lamps. Blood-red curtains hung beside the doorways. The walls were covered with photographs and paintings. A piano player stationed in a corner played some quiet music. Aaron stopped to shake a few hands, introduce Angel to a few prominent visitors and whisper in a few ears. They made their way eventually to an empty booth in the back with an excellent view of the surroundings. The table held a sign: “Reserved.” It was Aaron’s private table.
As soon as he helped Angel into the booth and sat down, a waitress arrived. She was dressed in a shiny black sheath, with a long string of sparkling beads around her neck. Her hair was wrapped tightly in a bun at the back of her head and her lips were painted dark red.
“Good evening, Mr. Hart. What can I get you?”
“Two whiskeys, please, Martha, from my private stock.”
“Yes, sir.” She glanced at Angel but didn’t say a word to her.
After Martha had left to collect their drinks, Angel leaned on Aaron’s arm.
“So, tell me about this place, Aaron.”
“This is my club, Angel. I opened it before I met your mother and it’s been doing a great business ever since.”
“The police haven’t given you a hard time since they passed that Prohibition?”
“No, the cops are nothing to worry about. Some of the finest men in blue are regulars and they take good care of my establishment.”
Angel laughed. “Does Mother know?”
“Now, don’t you go worrying your mother with talk about my little place here. She knows about it, but I’m sure she doesn’t care to be reminded of it. It’s not as highly established as your father’s bank, but I have a loyal following and they would be disappointed if the Golden Ruby were to close.”
Martha appeared with their glasses. Just as she turned away after setting the drinks in front of them, a man in a dark blue suit pressed close to the table.
“Evening, Mr. Hart.”
“Hello, Jack. I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
“Yes sir. I’m glad you dropped in tonight. We have some business that needs attending.”
“Well, in that case, perhaps you’ll come discuss it in my office.” Aaron slipped out of the booth and straightened his jacket cuffs. “Angel, stay here and enjoy the music. I’ll be back shortly. Martha can get you anything you might need.”
“All right, Aaron. Don’t be long.” Her eyes glittered in the candlelight.
“No, of course not. This shouldn’t take much time.”
Aaron led Jack Hynes through the crowded room and into the back bar. Along the side wall was an inconspicuous door which led to the back office. Aaron opened it and ushered Jack inside. The room was sparsely furnished with a desk and a few chairs, some filing cabinets and little else, with the exception of a large safe.
“Sit down, Jack.” Aaron settled himself on the edge of the desk and pulled the cigar case out of his pocket. Jack paced nervously and glanced back at the door a few times, his hand deep in his pocket. “Now what’s this all about?”
“It’s about the Bull. He paid me a visit yesterday and was talking about how you’ve been stiffin’ him lately. He’s not too happy.”
“Well, the Bull has been falling down on his side of our arrangement and I didn’t feel he was worth the investment. I’m not too concerned about his current happiness.”
“Mr. Hart, that’s gonna get us in some big trouble. I don’t think there’s much we can do about his ‘side of the arrangement’ and I don’t have the money to pay him myself.”
“Why not, Jack? Haven’t you been doing well in your side ventures? I thought that your little gang of hoodlums had been quite active.”
“Well, yeah, they’ve been doin’ their thing, but I’ve had some troubles, too. A couple of ‘em got busted last week. Too slow on the way out a door, I’m afraid. And the Dusters have been pestering us too. Without the Bull and his friends around, I ain’t clearin’ what I used to.”
“Jack, I’m not sure that your troubles require me to do anything. We had an agreement and I have my own obligations to worry about.”
“But Mr. Hart, the Bull says he’s got the commissioner on his side and they won’t just put the screws to me, they’re gonna close down the Golden Ruby.”
“Just which commissioner are you talking about?” Aaron put down his cigar and leaned forward. This was getting serious. The police commissioner, Richard Enright, had never given Hart any sign of trouble, but if he decided to go campaigning and clean up the area, he could be a real problem.
“The Bull was throwing around Hulbert’s name.”
“The port commissioner?”
“The very same.”
“What kind of game is the Bull playing?” Aaron realized that his political aspirations might be in even greater jeopardy if he wound up in a battle with George Hulbert.
Jack looked down at his shoes. “A rough one, that’s for sure. The Bull said he might even pay a visit to your missus if he didn’t get satisfaction.”
“He wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I don’t think the Bull feels too concerned about the niceties of society. He’s a tough character. You’ve seen him. He’s built like th
e Empire State building. I don’t think we should mess with him.”
“How much is he asking for this time?”
“He says we owe him three thousand.”
“That’s a lot of payola. What the hell does he think? That I’m his private bank?”
Jack grinned but didn’t say anything.
“I don’t have that kind of money lying around.”
“Well, Mr. Hart, he said he’d be coming back next week and he wants his money or there’s going to be some heads bashed in.”
“All right, Jack. I’ll see what I can do. I don’t need any trouble from the Bull.” Aaron tapped out his cigar and stood. “Come see me Sunday night, Jack. I’ll be here about ten.”
“Sure, Mr. Hart. Thanks.”
Jack slipped out the door and left Aaron to walk slowly back to his table. Angel smiled at him, her golden hair shining in the lamplight. Now wasn’t the time to worry about all this. He’d talk to Gladys in the morning. Right now, he wanted to enjoy himself.
“Would you like another drink, Angel?” He slid into the booth next to her, close enough to whisper in her ear. “Or would you like a little something different?” Aaron reached into his pocket and pulled out the packet that Sean had given him that morning.
“What is that, Aaron?”
“Something that will make your blood sing.” He showed her how to inhale the white powder.
As soon as she tried it, her eyes grew wide as saucers and the golden flecks around the center of her irises sparked like they were on fire. She grinned widely. “I feel like I could dance the Charleston all night. Aaron, can we go somewhere and dance?”
“Sure, Angel. Anything you want, honey.” Aaron stood and helped her to her feet. They walked to the front of the club where Jack Haynes was talking to George, the doorman.
“Hey, George, would you get Sam for me? Angel wants to go dancing, so we’re going to find someplace to cut a rug.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hart.” George turned back to Jack. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He left Aaron, who looked at Jack with a question in his eyes.
“I was asking him about the Bull. He’s got some friends down at the port, longshoremen. He’s going to see what they mighta heard. See if the Bull is stirring up trouble down on the docks, too.”
“Good idea, Jack. Let me know if you find out anything.” He clapped Jack on the back. “I’ll figure out the rest.”
Chapter Fourteen
Morelli
A scream shattered the wet, still night.
Morelli pushed himself away from the building wall. Brushing the water out of his eyes, he pulled a gun from underneath his raincoat and ran toward the alley.
Guilty thoughts plagued his mind as he ran. He had tried to talk her out of this, watching as she pulled on the red dress. This wasn’t a game. The rapist was dangerous and she knew it. But she wanted the story; she thought she could handle it with his help. She wouldn’t listen and he’d been fool enough to go along with her plan. Now he had to get to her before God knew what happened.
He slipped once on the wet concrete, but righted himself against the brick wall, tearing his hand against the rough surface. The scar on his face throbbed dully. He reached up to push his hair out of his eyes and smelled blood. Morelli threw himself around the corner.
Halfway down the alley, he saw them. Sally was turned toward him, a dark shape behind her, holding her fast. He watched as the rapist drew a knife across the pale skin of her face, and saw the blood run down over her beautiful cheek and neck and stain her red dress a darker hue.
Fog drifted between them, obscuring his view. He staggered forward and suddenly Sally was gone and he was at the edge of a clearing. At first the ground seemed smooth in front of him, but when he looked more closely, he could see that it was covered in grotesquely twisted bodies. They were missing limbs, missing heads. The dead men lay entangled, covering the ground like some damnable fungus. There were gaps and holes here and there. He could just make out a winding and treacherous path through it.
His uniform flapped around him in the wind, in tatters, just like theirs. His head felt leaden and he shook it to get rid of the confusion and fear. Instead of his pistol, he was carrying a rifle, and the helmet he should have been wearing was in his hands, but it didn’t seem important to him right then. He stumbled over something and fell onto a young German soldier. Morelli was inches from his bloody face. His helmet was lying half off his head and he was grinning, empty eye sockets dripping gore. Morelli scrambled away on all fours, a scream bubbling up in his throat.
Getting up, he stumbled away from the poor bastard, trampling the bodies around him as he ran. Finally, out of breath, he slowed to a walk. The path appeared in front of him and Morelli continued to pick his way through the dead.
Ahead in the mist, he caught a glimpse of a pool. It looked cool and refreshing and he realized that he had a mighty thirst. The pool was silent and still. Not a ripple. It appeared unspoiled by the dead that lay all around.
As he hurried toward the oasis, his only thought became his thirst. His throat clenched at the sight of the pool. It was almost overpowering. Kneeling beside it, breathing hard, he paused, his vision graying out. It was several moments before he could look down into it.
Blood. A pool of blood. Morelli pulled back from it, sick at heart and stomach, but before he moved away, he looked down at the pool’s surface, his bare head and face reflected.
There was a huge piece of metal sticking out of the right side of his face. It was jagged and covered with blood. His blood. He tried to pull it out of his face, but his hands kept slipping in the blood. Over and over again, he pulled at the slippery pain but it wouldn’t come loose. Visions of his buddies being blown to hell rose up around him in the pool, the piece of shrapnel that had hit him, knocking off his helmet, lodged in his face. He pulled again and screamed in pain and fear.
The scream echoed through the room. Bolting out of bed, Morelli looked around in the dark. No alley, no bodies, no blood. His ragged breathing slowed. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and down his cheek, feeling the scar, long healed, on his left cheek. It ran from above his ear, down to his chin. There would be no more sleep tonight.
Chapter Fifteen
Sheridan Square
Saturday morning
Morelli spent the early morning hours walking the streets from City Hall, through the East Village and back to Washington Square. He’d looked into every little café and dive he could find, but no redhead. He stopped to take a break in the square and sip a cup of coffee to warm up. The university building doors suddenly opened and students began spilling out onto the street; classes must be over. He focused on the parade of young people walking down the streets surrounding the park. Some of them might be headed out for a morning meal. He left the park, headed west along Washington Place, to see where they might go.
The tiny sign identifying Eats caught his eye. It was across the street from Sheridan Square, along Washington Place two blocks from the park. The café was in the basement of a building, and despite being mid-morning, a regular flow of people went up and down the steps. He walked over and joined them.
A tight-faced woman with ashen skin and graying hair stood wiping down the counter. The only other waitress in the place was a short, plump brunette cutting a tight path through the tables. No redheads. Morelli leaned over the counter near the older woman. “Morning.”
She didn’t stop wiping, but she did look his way. He took it as an invitation to continue.
“I’m looking for a young woman who works here, a redhead. Is she coming in today?”
“What’s it to you? You a cop?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. She slipped one hand in a pocket of her apron. Morelli could see it bunch under the fabric and figured she had a knife in there.
“No, not any more. I’m just looking her up for a friend. I was told she works here.”
“She does when she bothers to come in. Don’t know when she’ll be both
ering any time soon.” The woman went back to wiping the counter. Conversation over.
Morelli tried again. “When did you see her last?”
“I ain’t seen her at all, recently. I usually work nights, but I got called in to take over this shift ’cause she hasn’t been here in a few days. Don’t know why.”
Morelli still didn’t know her name, but hoped he might find out. “Can you ask the cook if he knows?”
He took a nickel out of his pocket and left it on the counter. One moment it was there and the next it was gone, swept away by the rag. The waitress turned toward the window and hollered.
“Hey Jim, is that Maggie whatsername coming back?”
The answer from the back was muffled, but the waitress turned back and repeated it. “He said she was supposed to be in later today, but I wouldn’t count on it. She’s not too reliable.”
“Well, thank you for your help.” Morelli dropped another nickel on the counter and left. Time to keep watch.
Crossing to the small park in Sheridan Square, Morelli stopped at the curb and gently rubbed his shoes with the edge of his handkerchief. They were still scruffy from his walk. He unbuttoned his great coat and looked for his cigarettes, before he remembered that he’d given the pack to the super. Turning in a slow circle, he took in the sights and sounds of Sheridan Square with a soldier’s eye: the lines of sight and places to hide, the distractions of kids at play and mothers at worry.
He noticed a partially finished lean-to in the far corner. It had probably been used as storage for the park’s maintenance tools. A pile of empty crates sat along the open side and blocked his view of the interior. Morelli found a park bench facing the café and sat, closing his eyes for a moment, feeling the fleeting sun on his face and taking in the smell of damp grass. He could hear the laughter of children behind him. He took a deep breath and then opened his eyes to keep watch.
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