by Ann Aptaker
But that’s an idea for another day. Tonight, after all the death and ugly vengeance of the last week, plus the guilt I feel about Lorraine Quinn and the grief I carry for Alice, all I want is that rarest of things in my life, peace and quiet. And anyway, whatever politics Peg tries on me, she knows I have my own ways of fighting my battles. The face looking back at me in the bathroom mirror has the scars to prove it. They tell the story of my survival, the times I stood up after being knocked around, the times I managed not to get killed by cops or thugs or Sig Loreale. There’ll be two more scars to add to the story, the one at the corner of my mouth courtesy of Tap Tenzi’s flashy pinkie ring, and the one caused by Desmond’s wallop to the side of my head. I survived those attacks, too.
I wash the blood off my face, go into the kitchen, make a chicken sandwich on rye with plenty of mustard, fill a glass with water, and take my little supper to the kitchen table. The sandwich is good, but the water’s a bore. I toss it, take the glass and my sandwich to the living room, and pour myself a hefty dollop of Chivas.
I turn on the radio, hum along to Tony Bennett singing “Rags to Riches”— a sentiment I think is swell— and take the glass of Chivas and my sandwich over to the window. Lights are on all over the city now. Rooftop electric advertising signs glow in bright colors against the night. Down below, people are on the streets, hailing cabs or walking home from nearby theaters, or heading into the neighborhood’s nightspots for the late show. New York’s streets are never empty. Makes it easy to get lost in a crowd if that’s what you need to do.
It’s what Desmond is probably doing until he makes it out of town. The chances of Adair finding him are slim. The chances of Sig finding him are good. The chances of Desmond surviving Sig’s dragnet are zero.
I should feel guilty. I probably condemned the guy to death when I made the call to Sig. But Desmond left me for dead in a tunnel. I don’t owe him any favors. Besides, even if Adair is lucky enough to find Desmond before Sig does, the state will fry him anyway.
Tony Bennett is followed by a singing commercial for Wildroot Cream Oil hair tonic. I make it fast to the radio to turn it off. I don’t want to hear that commercial. I used to use that hair tonic brand. The woman who mattered more to me, the woman whose name I can’t say without falling to pieces, liked what it did to my unruly hair. I can’t use the stuff anymore. I can’t listen to that tune anymore.
I turn the dial to turn it off, but a news bulletin cuts in, stops my hand: We interrupt this program for a bulletin from the New York City Police Department. Mrs. Dierdre Atchley, socialite wife of prominent banker Brooks Atchley, has been arrested for the murder of police detective Lieutenant Norman Huber. Brooks Atchley is being held for further questioning in the matter. Their son, banker James Atchley, previously arrested for the murder of Eve Garraway, daughter of the late political leader John Garraway, is also being questioned in relation to the Huber murder. Stay tuned to this station for further developments as they become available. We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
Well, that didn’t take Sig long. I guess he took my advice and gave the glory to the cops.
So it’s all coming out right in the end. Johnny Tenzi will fry for Lorraine’s murder; one way or another Desmond will get what’s coming to him for killing Eve Garraway; and the Atchleys, that terrifying excuse for a family, will disappear from the elegance of the Social Register and into the disfiguring clutches of the Law. And I’ll go right on taking pleasure in pretty women and poking my finger in the Law’s eye.
The radio is playing Jo Stafford’s latest hit, “Make Love to Me.” Her smooth-as-smoke voice is backed up by a hot instrumental arrangement, giving the song a sexy kick.
I guess I’ll go twirl around with a pretty little thing at the Green Door Club after all.
Acknowledgments
A lot of this book was written in Paris during what was supposed to be a three-month adventure of writing, exploring, and socializing. It was a trip I’d scrimped and saved and given up a lot for. Then came the Covid-19 pandemic. After my first two weeks in Paris, my social and exploring plans were squashed as the entire nation of France, indeed all of Europe, went into pandemic lockdown for the next two months.
So instead of my original idea of writing for four hours each morning and then spending the afternoon and evening galivanting around town, with side trips to the south of France, maybe quick weekends in Venice and Florence, I would now be shut in with nothing to do but write from morning till night. The writing part of my Paris adventure became the raison d’être for each day.
The pandemic, of course, was awful. France, like everywhere else, suffered terribly. But if a writer finds herself locked away in a city, what better city to be locked away in than Paris? And in a genuine garret with the iconic view of the Paris rooftops above a courtyard?
So first and foremost I must thank the City of Paris for its nourishing spirit, even during the worst of times. I felt the Parisians’ lust for life, their storied joie de vie, while in my garret and when I went out for the permitted errands of shopping for necessities. Paris has fed the creativity of writers and artists for centuries. No plague was going to stop it.
There are people in that glorious city who made sure this American in Paris never felt stranded or alone. They called or emailed me regularly, checking in to share a laugh or just a shared moment of the day, and keeping me informed of the French government’s evolving Covid regulations. My deepest gratitude goes to Claudine Dumoulin, Claude Pollack, Stephanie Olen Kleindorfer, and to my hosts Richard and his son Sacha, who made sure I knew where to go and who to see for supplies and services in a difficult situation.
Stateside, I’m grateful to Richard Eagan, Liz Ostrow, AE Cavalieri, Carol Seibert, Stan Coplan and Jan Schleiger for their encouragement and support of my vagabond adventure. Special thanks to my buddy Allan Neuwirth for taking care of two of life’s most important tasks: collecting my stateside mail and generally being a pal.
A special shout-out goes to Debbie Fahlman, who came up with the terrific name “Liam Adair” for one of the characters in this book.
And finally, loving thanks to Bywater Books for adopting Cantor Gold when she was orphaned.
About the Author
Native New Yorker Ann Aptaker’s Cantor Gold crime/mystery series has won both Lambda Literary and Goldie Awards. Her short stories have appeared in two editions of the Fedora crime anthology, Switchblade Magazine’s Stiletto Heeled issue, the Mickey Finn: Twenty-First Century Noir anthology and in Black Cat Mystery Magazine. Her novella, A Taco, A T-Bird, A Beretta and One Furious Night, was published by Down & Out Books for their Guns and Tacos crime series. Her flash fiction, A Night in Town, appeared in the online zine Punk Soul Poet, and another flash fiction, Rock ’N Dyke Roll, is featured in the Goldie Award-winning anthology Happy Hours: Our Lives in Gay Bars. Ann has been an art curator, exhibition design specialist, art writer, and professor of Art History at the New York Institute of Technology. She now writes full time.
Bywater Books
Copyright © 2021 Ann Aptaker
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-61294-206-3
Bywater Books First Edition: July 2021
Cover designer: Ann McMan, TreeHouse Studio
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This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events described by the author are fictitious. No resemblance to real persons, dead or alive, is intended.
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