Tarnished Gold
Page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Ann Aptaker’s Work
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
New York City, 1950. Cantor Gold, art smuggler and dapper dyke-about-town, hunts for a missing masterpiece she’s risked her life to bring through the port of New York. She must outsmart the Law that wants to jail her; outrun the dockside gangsters who would let her take the fall for murder; and outplay a shady art dealer, his lover, and a beautiful curator who toys with Cantor’s passion. Through it all, Cantor must stay out of the gunsights of a killer who’s knocking off rivals for the missing masterpiece—and stay alive to solve the mystery of her stolen love: Sophie de la Luna y Sol.
A Cantor Gold Crime.
What Reviewers Say About Ann Aptaker’s Work
“This is a brilliantly written book which makes every lover of historical fiction swoon with bliss. And for all who like to have a glimpse back into what organized crime was like in NYC after WW II and living as a dyke, this is an illuminating read. Ann Aptaker easily takes us back in time to NYC of 1949 with dirty cops, gunslinging gangsters, beautiful ladies and impressive cars. Kudos to Ann Aptaker for this gem of a book which will delight lovers of historical fiction and noir.”—Curve Magazine
“An author can make a time and place come alive and this was certainly true of Ann Aptaker’s book Criminal Gold. We’re plunged into the heart of 1940s criminal New York with a thrilling tale of murder and deception. …Aptaker has set herself up for a cracking series not only because of the character of Cantor Gold but for choosing a period of time that is fascinating to read about.”—Crimepieces.com
“…a noir novel with a sexual twist. I did not find the novel to be so much about crime as it was about being oneself. Cantor insists on living openly; she is a free woman because she has taken her freedom and this is much unlike those of us who had to fight to live openly as we do. …This is author Aptaker’s first novel and if this is an indication of what she can do, we need to welcome her to the canon of gay literature.”—Reviews by Amos Lassen
Tarnished Gold
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Tarnished Gold
© 2015 By Ann Aptaker. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-452-0
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: September 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)
By the Author
Criminal Gold
Tarnished Gold
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone at Bold Strokes Books for their support, and especially to my editor, Ruth Sternglantz, for her patience with me, her willingness to understand my vision and tolerate my orneriness.
Special thanks to my sister Yren Berry, who’s smarter and more talented than I am, and who stands by me in all things.
Dedication
The memory lingers on.
Chapter One
On a freighter sailing into New York Harbor, 1950
The first killer to come at me tonight is the wind. The cold October wind smacks me in the face, claws at my flesh right through my raincoat, and tries to toss me overboard as I swing myself over the ship’s rail and down the rope ladder. The ladder’s wild in the wind, shimmying like a hopped-up stripper, slamming me against the hull of the freighter, a French bucket hauling a cargo of sweet perfumes and smelly cheeses. I’m not the type of dame who wears perfume, though I’m happy to wallow in the scented skin of the ladies in my life. Too bad the freighter’s only carrying the dollar-ninety-eight a bottle variety, the kind whose aroma lingers in a headache; not worth pilfering any bottles to give to the ladies.
If I want to live long enough to enjoy a classier variety of perfumed nights, I’d better get a better handle on this rope ladder. The wind wants to smash me to pieces as I climb down the bone-twisting fifty-foot descent to Red Drogan’s tugboat. And now there’s a second killer snapping at my ankles: spray from the churning river soaks the rope, makes it slippery. I might as well be trying to get a foothold on slithering eels. Even my crepe-soled shoes can’t always hold the rungs. My heart’s lurching up my throat and my stomach nearly plummets out my ass as I’m thrown on a wild slide down the rope ladder, a death ride that burns my palms until my hands finally—finally!—get a grip.
My heart and my stomach crawl back to where they belong.
After a few deep breaths, trying not to choke on the sea spray flying down my throat, steadying myself as best I can, I climb down the rungs again only to face one more killer, the one waiting for me at the bottom of the rope ladder, the killer who wants to crush me to death. If I misjudge the jump to Drogan’s tug, I’ll land between the tug and the freighter, crushed to a pulp and bony splinters.
This is a helluva way to slip a priceless piece of art through New York Harbor, but I’m in a dangerous racket, a smuggler of fine art and other treasure. The harbor is the front door to my business, and business is booming. The American engine’s gone into overdrive since the Second World War ended five years ago, cranking out prosperity as fast as the mint can print money. Everyone’s rushing to spend their new dough on their share of the American Dream: a house with a patch of lawn in front, a barbecue grill in the backyard, and a living room tricked out with matching furniture and a console television set.
But some people have more highfalutin dreams. They use their new dough to buy class, a ticket out of low-rentsville and into high society. Nothing says you’re a class act more than old art on your new walls. And if the art you crave isn’t always available, that’s where I come in. In exchange for swinging in the wind on nights like this to satisfy the cravings of private collectors and curators at big museums, I earn fistfuls of cash, the kind it takes to have my silk suits custom tailored, buy a new car every year, and enjoy the amusements of my outlaw life.
Sure, my racket’s a crime, but in the sneering eyes of the Law my life is a crime just because I romance women. I can’t figure why the Law even gives a damn, but it gives enough of a damn to want to throw people like me in jail for it.
So if the Law’s got nothing better to do than be a bedroom bully, then the hell with
’em. I’ll go right on romancing pretty women and earning my dough by sticking my finger in the Law’s eye, something I’ve been doing since I was a rough kid growing up in Coney Island, though if I’m careless in the next few seconds, get chewed up by the wind, and miss the jump to Drogan’s tug, there won’t be enough of me left to enjoy women or money or anything else.
It’s only a few feet now from the bottom of the rope ladder to the deck of the tug, but the river is making a grab for my ankles and the wind won’t let go of me, hurls me in all the wrong directions. Drogan’s keeping the prow of his tug against the starboard hip of the freighter, but it’s tough for me to figure the angle of my jump because the freighter’s heaving on the swells of the river while the half dozen other tugs working the ship turn her into its berth. Drogan’s tug is rolling like a rubber ducky in a splash pool. If I come in too sharp or too shallow, I’ll meet that third killer, the one whose sea-drooling mouth is waiting to crush me.
Dammit! The wind is really piling it on now, whipping me high over the river and blowing black smoke in my face from the tug’s funnel. The smoke stings my eyes, blurs my vision. I can barely see the tug’s deck, and glare off the river blots my view of the deck even more. The glare’s from a light, a light I’m not happy about. It’s the mast light of a cop cruiser.
Why the hell are the harbor police here now? Tonight’s operation’s been set up tight as a drum, the freighter’s captain and any other wagging tongues paid into silence. Maybe the cops are just cruising by. Maybe they want some perfume for their wives. Maybe they don’t even see the speck that’s me swinging against this huge freighter.
I can’t linger in this wind any longer. I’m jangling on the swaying ladder like a skeleton, my teeth rattling from the cold and my bones vibrating from the grinding engines of the freighter, but I’ve got to make the jump!
*
“Aaayyah!” explodes from my throat when the sting of ice-cold water evidently rouses me from the dead.
I hear what sounds like splintering wood, then realize its Drogan’s familiar voice. “You missed,” he says, standing over me with a bucket, grinning, which is not a soothing sight. Sure, Drogan’s got all his teeth, but they’re on a face that could be mistaken for tree bark. And that croaky voice of his coming through that brittle grin doesn’t do anything to smooth the impression. “Caught your foot on the gunwale and went tumblin’ over yourself on the deck,” he says. “Landed headfirst. Even caught your chin on the capstan along the way. You’re a helluva sight.” Now he’s laughing, a raw cackle that could strip the scales from fish. “The suave act Cantor Gold with dirty duds an’ a bloody chin!”
My hand goes to the burning pain on my chin. Yeah, it’s slick with blood. The cut’s not big but the pain feels deep. It’ll leave a scar. Well, it’ll have company. I’ve got quite a collection of souvenirs, heartwarming reminders of my wrestling matches with the Grim Reaper.
Standing up is tough enough with my legs all banged up and my head spinning from my crash landing, but the roll of the tugboat on the choppy river makes it even tougher. Drogan finally gives me a hand, pulls me to my feet. “Get inside the cabin,” he says. “Clean yourself up and take care of that chin. First-aid kit’s where it always is.”
“That cop cruiser,” I say. “They spot us?”
“I doubt it. And anyways, soon as you was on deck, I wove around through the other boats and made like I was pushin’ the freighter. Then I took off and lost ’em for good.”
“I suppose the other tugmen won’t talk.”
“Course not.”
“And you brought the stuff I wanted from my apartment?”
“Yeah. The briefcase, a pack of smokes, blue suit and the trimmin’s.” When Drogan’s sure I won’t topple over from my bruises, he climbs back up into the wheelhouse. Somebody’s got to drive this tub.
It feels good to get out of the wet wind and into the cabin where it’s warm and dry. I find the pack of Chesterfields among the stuff Drogan brought from my apartment, light up a smoke, and take a deep drag to smooth out my knotted innards and tangled joints.
Drogan must’ve done his bob and weave separating us from the freighter while I was sleeping off my crash landing on the deck, and now we’re steaming up the East River to the next rendezvous spot in tonight’s job.
The object of that job is in a small folio sewn into the lining of my raincoat. I’m anxious to have a look at it, check its condition before I deliver it to the client tonight, but in my present state I might drip blood on it or smear it with my grimy hands. Checking the goods will have to wait until I’ve cleaned my bloodied chin, washed the sea and the soot off the rest of me, and changed out of my dirty clothes and into my dark blue pinstripe double-breasted silk suit and trimmin’s, as Drogan called them: a pale yellow shirt with ruby cabochon cufflinks, blue and gray striped tie with red highlights, pale yellow socks, oxblood cordovan wing tips, and a dark green wool overcoat and brown tweed cap I’ll put on when I go ashore. By the time I finish off with a red silk pocket handkerchief and more or less comb my hair—a short brown mop that’s as untamable as I am—I feel tip-top again, even laugh a little about Drogan tagging me a suave act, then I settle down to business and slice open the seam of the raincoat with my pocket knife.
Some people’s mouths water when they get excited about something. Other people’s hearts beat faster. But my breathing slows and quiets even though I’m excited as a little kid unwrapping a birthday present when I pull the folio from the lining of the raincoat and unwrap the rubber sheathing protecting it against the damp. It’s always like this when I come to this part of the job; next to the thrill of cash crossing my palm, this is my favorite part of my racket, when it’s just me and a knockout work of art.
I’m a dyed-in-the-wool city dog. All the nature I need is in Central Park. But what I’m looking at when I open the folio—a small sixteenth-century watercolor of plants and grasses in a marshy patch—takes my breath away. It’s the work of the German Renaissance master Albrecht Dürer, a guy better known for nightmarish etchings of Death, engravings of melancholy Philosophy, and scary pictures of the Apocalypse. But if ecstasy has a hidden soul, Dürer found it and laid it bare in this little clump of everyday weeds. It’s not just his skill with a brush that gets me, the drawing so precise that all the greenery in the picture has been identified by people who know their grass. No, what really gets to me is what’s in the bend and sway of these marshy weeds. Dürer got inside their ecstasy, inside their pure pleasure in being alive.
The history of this little watercolor, though, is a different story. Its life has been more knock-around than pleasurable, surviving nearly four hundred and fifty years of royal murders, dynastic overthrows, political treachery, and religious wars. It’s been sold for cash, stolen for greed, kept hostage for revenge, and passed hand to hand through centuries of scholars and rogues. Its most recent adventure—at least, before its wild ride out of Europe with me—was when it was looted by the Nazis back in 1938, stolen from the Jacobson family of Berlin by Hermann Goering’s jackboots. But its wanderings might finally be coming to an end. Tonight’s job is one of those rare times in my line of work when I’ll be delivering stolen goods back to the rightful owner; well, the most recent rightful owner, in any case, the widow Mrs. Hannah Jacobson.
Sure, the justice in tonight’s job feels great, but I don’t kid myself. I’m no saint. I’m not in the business of rescuing works of art for the betterment of humanity. I don’t worship motherhood or babies either. I don’t think much of the American Dream. And I don’t risk my life for free.
*
First it was wind and water. Now it’s filth and fumes. I may be the master of a high-class racket, but I pay for it by risking my life and having my senses molested.
This latest sensory irritant, an assault of muck, noise, and stink, is courtesy of Newtown Creek, a meandering sludge separating the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens. Sooty factories and gassy refineries glowing red along its banks
spew out everything from chemicals to copper to fertilizer, and even the fat of butchered animals, turning the creek into a putrid waterway slimy as a swamp and smelly as a toilet. Barges lumber along carrying factory goods and waste, a chunk of it human. Newtown Creek’s dark water is one of the New York Mob’s favorite dumping sites. Sometimes the water-bloated corpses float to the surface, but not often. Cement boots don’t float.
But this dingy wasteland and its miserable slop of water has its own charm: a terrific view of the city. Back across the East River, Manhattan Island rises into the night sky like an electric dream, its millions of lights challenging the stars. It’s no contest. The city wins. The city always wins because it’s powered by money and dreams. Nothing burns brighter than money or hotter than dreams.
But Drogan didn’t ferry me into Newtown Creek for the view. I’m here for a rendezvous with the beautiful Rosie Bliss, a cabbie with daredevil driving skills and a taste for my outlaw life. Her talents and tastes make Rosie the perfect driver for my racket: reliable on the pickup, fast on the getaway. She also has a fondness for the knifelike scar above my lip, which she likes to explore regularly, and while she’s at it, she explores the rest of me. I like exploring Rosie, too. She has a number of scenic peaks and valleys where I enjoy spending time.
Our rendezvous tonight is in a backwater along the last branch of the creek. Assuming Rosie’s on time—and she always is; Rosie never lets me down—she’s already parked her cab on the abandoned pier. Rosie drives a big Checker that looks like every other Checker Cab in New York, which is exactly why I’ll be traveling in the backseat when Rosie drives me to Hannah Jacobson’s apartment. I’d rather not use my own car when I carry goods. The cops know my Buick and if they’re in the mood they’ll sure as hell pull me over. If I’m caught holding goods, the Law will throw me into the women’s joint up in Bedford Hills, and I’m not a fan of long-term confinement no matter how many dames are around to keep me company—well, not yet, anyway. It might be okay in my golden years, my needs seen to by a few hundred pretty little murderesses and thieves.