Creatures of Want and Ruin

by Molly Tanzer

  “I did,” she said, “but we didn’t . . .”

  He paused. She wriggled urgently, begging him with her body. Gabriel resumed his attentions, but she could tell he was disappointed.

  When she and Gabriel had gotten serious, she hadn’t broken things off with Rocky—at his request. He liked to hear about it. It got him hot.

  “I wanted to get home to you,” she said as she reached for her cervical cap. “So I left early.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is, it is . . . But I was thinking about the first time he had me—Rocky, I mean.”

  “Oh?” She heard the interest in his voice as she inserted her contraceptive.

  “Yes,” she said, reaching down and bringing his hand back to her. “He had a flask, so we bought two coffees on the street and poured it into the cups.” She elected to redact the conversation they’d had when she found out he was a poet, jumping straight to the good stuff. “He asked if I’d like to have another drink, back at his bungalow, and I told him I had a skiff.”

  Gabriel grinned. “You easy little slut,” he said affectionately. “What happened then?”

  “We didn’t make it to his house,” said Ellie. “He took me on his front steps. Didn’t even take his pants off.”

  Gabriel could wait no longer. She came immediately as he entered her—which wasn’t her usual way, but she didn’t usually feel like her whole body burned with some sort of living fire beneath her skin. After that, their communication became wordless until they fell apart, sweaty and satisfied in the warm morning air.

  She didn’t have a steak after, or horseradish, but she did fry up an enormous quantity of bacon for them—only burning some of it—and then fried some bread in the drippings. That and coffee put her right, as did seeing her latest poem, “Sunset on the Bay,” in the Record. She wondered if Rocky would see it. He couldn’t be counted on to mention her publications until she brought them up, and then had only the vaguest of remarks, though he assured her he read every one he saw.

  It was a lot harder to believe in a man with hot hands and colorful spit and eyes that held fire and water and cracking earth within them as she drank coffee and read the paper in the morning’s bright light. Given the number of baymen she’d known who’d told crazier stories, and seemed to really believe them, her senses had likely been playing tricks on her in a confusing and desperate situation.

  Pleased to have banished her air-starved brain’s doubts from her well-fed, well-rested mind, Ellie dawdled over dressing before going down to inspect the windfall booze in the cellar. Once she ambled down there, she sniffed at the bottles—they all had that distinctive vegetal funk—and then scooted them behind some other crates.

  After assessing her stock, Ellie felt good enough to take a few practice swings at the heavy bag she’d saved up for after taking those boxing lessons years ago. She still practiced on it when she had the time—and energy. When Gabriel had hauled it over here and hung it up for her, it had finally hit her that they would marry, and she would really live here one day.

  It felt good to stretch her muscles with a few jabs, but when her knuckles collided with the leather she winced. The pain reminded her of Greene with his lamplike eyes, his strange rainbow spittle. . . The memory asserted itself with surprising potency in the gloom of the cellar, and when Ellie went back upstairs to look for Gabriel, her mood had substantially soured.

  “I gotta go,” she said, finding him in his work shed, sanding down a wooden beam.

  “You sure?” said Gabriel.

  “Can’t stay with my crab traps waiting for me.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t the greatest of her obligations, but it was an important one. The money she brought home from running booze wasn’t the only thing her family relied on her to provide.

  Gabriel slid his glasses down his nose and looked at her like a disapproving schoolteacher. “I know you can’t. I just wish you could is all.”

  “Sorry. Me too,” she said. “Soon, though.”

  The breeze off the bay was cool that morning, but even so, she could tell it was going to be yet another hot one. Usually, Ellie was ready for fall before the weather broke, but not this summer. She’d need every day to make enough money to send Lester off to school.

  Ellie tied up at the little boatyard at the end of Ketcham Avenue, a bottle of liquor tucked deep into her bag. Even if plenty of people ran booze all over Long Island, from her Uncle Jimmy to Al Capone, there was no need to advertise what she did for a living. Some stranger might see, and be scandalized enough to report her to someone who might do something about it.

  One who would not do something about it was the person for whom Ellie’s bottle was intended. Officer Hector Jones of the Amityville Police Department was ostensibly in charge of filing any and all reports on illegal distilling operations and clubs accused of serving drink, but unless somebody really stepped out of line (or failed to pay their bribe), those citations seemed to get lost in the shuffle.

  Several years ago, Jones had been deputized by the feds in a case involving an Italian grocery store clerk who’d purchased three hundred pounds of sugar a few days before an illegal still exploded in the woods behind the Powells’ barn. Jones, a decorated veteran of the Great War, hadn’t wanted to be deputized—hadn’t wanted the subsequent promotion and responsibility, either—but his superiors felt this addition to his resume made him the ideal man for the job. Amityville residents felt the same way about his eagerness to overlook their efforts to obtain and consume spirits.

  Officer Jones had an arch sense of humor that Ellie liked. She liked his looks, too, even if she wouldn’t quite call him handsome. At one time she’d thought he might enjoy her humor and her looks, but he’d never asked her out—a shame, for at one time she’d have said yes to him in more ways than one.

  Ellie typically looked forward to her visits with Officer Jones, but that day she dreaded their rendezvous. Her fresh injuries looked bad enough that the men who perpetually haunted the boatyard had not believed her when she assured them she was not in need of a doctor’s attention. Mercurial and detached as Jones might be, he wouldn’t be pleased to see her walking gingerly, a black eye blooming and her neck all bruised and red.

  She was right.

  “Who did this to you?” he demanded after quickly ushering her inside his office. His sharp tone alarmed his faithful companion, a leggy brown mutt called Cleo.

  “I’m all right,” croaked Ellie, trying not to wince as she lowered herself into a chair. Cleo stood and padded over to her.

  “Was it that Polack you took up with? Did he beat up on you after drinking too much po-tah-to wodka?” asked Jones, with a terrible imitation of a Polish accent.

  “No,” she said, and lowered her hand so that Cleo could lick it. “You and I both know Gabe’s gentle as a lamb. And don’t call him a Polack.”

  “Fine, fine, but it’s my job to ask,” said Jones with a shrug. “So what happened?”

  Ellie had already decided not to tell Jones about her night. It had taken a lot of deliberation on her part—she figured as a veteran he’d understand taking a life in self-defense. But at the same time, he was a cop. He might look the other way about her running booze . . . but killing someone was a different matter entirely.

  “I was out last night in the storm.” He quirked a thick eyebrow at her, and she sighed. “Misjudged the weather badly; I admit it. Hit my ribs, fell on my face, got my neck tangled in the lines. That’s why I don’t look so pretty this morning. Satisfied?”

  “You look fine,” said Jones, surprising her. “Just take care of those ribs and your awful neck, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “So where’s my booze?”

  There was the Jones she knew. After apologizing to Cleo for moving, for the dog had pressed her narrow body against Ellie’s left leg, she fished the bottle out of her bag and passed it over. Another surprise: Jones handed her some cash for it. She accepted it without comment.

&n
bsp; “Was it your father?” he guessed, gazing at her.

  “I slipped. End of story.”

  “I don’t believe you.” There was no threat behind his words, no menace. It was just a simple statement of fact. That’s what worried Ellie. She tried not to react, but she felt her cheeks grow hot. She didn’t know what to do—play it off as annoyance that he was pressing her? Confess to killing Walter Greene?

  Thankfully, Jones took care of the situation for her. “Look, Miss West . . . there’ve been some recent incidents around Amityville. Attack, mostly, but some disappearances, too. If you ask me, I think they’re all related, though I haven’t voiced that suspicion to any of my fellow officers.”

  Ellie went back to petting Cleo, trying to play it cool. “Why not?”

  “Because I think a group is responsible, not an individual.” Ellie was confused; Jones must have seen it, because he explained, “Individual killers, Ripper-types—they tend to have a pattern, but there’s no pattern here, except that all the victims are either immigrants, entrepreneurs like you, loose women, artists . . . or Negroes, of course.”

  “So it’s the Klan.”

  “Actually, Detective West, I’m pretty sure it’s not the Klan. These people, their pattern is different. They’re more aggressive than our usual band of bigots, but it’s definitely some group with similar . . . ideals, if you can call them that. It’s frustrating—I don’t have a lot to go on. The survivors come away pretty shaken up, sometimes roughed up, but all unwilling to talk.”

  “So why haven’t you told the other officers?”

  “Because half are in the Klan already, and as for the rest . . . I don’t trust them.” He shrugged irritably. “Haven’t been able to do much, as I don’t have a lot to go on. Yet.”

  “It’s strange I haven’t heard anything about this.”

  “Well, disappearances are tricky. We don’t like news of those to get out for a few reasons. And as for the attacks, well, I’ve wanted to keep those hushed up too. So I’m just telling people to be careful where I can, since I really don’t know what’s going on, or if I’m even hearing about everything.”

  “I’ll think on it and advise some friends, too,” said Ellie, thinking about SJ.

  “Good, and let them know that if something happens they can always come to me. If they’re willing. Whoever’s doing this, they’re doing a real job on their victims. No one’s coming forward. The only reason I know anything at all is due to a black kid who went to the hospital two weeks ago. He was roughed up bad enough that a nurse called me in to check him out. He wouldn’t talk—too scared. My only lead is that apparently he woke up from the ether screaming about masks, and some farm-girl said something similar when I went to check out a report of a fire a while back. The family had already put it out—nasty, greasy thing, we’re not sure what happened—and before the girl said more they hushed her and sent her inside.” He sighed. “Polish family,” he added, eyebrows all the way up.

  “That’s terrible.” Ellie was struggling to keep her voice neutral as her mind churned. She wondered if Jones would link Greene’s disappearance to these others.

  “It is. So you see why I’d want to know if you’d experienced anything similar.”

  Greene hadn’t been wearing a mask, no. “That’s not what happened to me, Hector.” Ellie rarely used his first name, but she needed him to believe her . . . or at least to back off.

  It worked. “All right,” he said. “I still don’t believe you slipped, but that’s your business.”

  “It is,” she said, earning a grumble from Cleo as she stood, but she couldn’t get out of there quickly enough.

  Jones also looked surprised that she was putting such an abrupt end to their interview, until she said, “I’m running late today. My family will be worrying.”

  He favored her with a rare grin. “What, didn’t you make it home last night?”

  “Good day, Officer Jones,” she replied, and headed for the door.

  “Miss West,” he said. She turned, surprised by the tone in his voice. She couldn’t quite decide what it was. Tenderness? Fear? “Stay safe out there, all right?”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  Ellie thought about what Officer Jones had told her as she cut over onto County Line Road to make her way toward her family’s house on Cedar Street, glad she had a bit of a walk ahead of her before needing to be civil to anyone. She was furious.

  It was bad enough that the Klan had a toehold on Long Island—more than a toehold in some villages. Hearing that some other group was trying to pick up where they left off was horrifying and enraging. Ellie didn’t know what she could do beyond talking to SJ, Gabriel, and anyone else she knew who might be in danger . . . and keep a sharp eye out for herself, too. The Klan hated bootleggers. These newcomers might, as well.

  It was a strange sensation for Ellie, walking down the street of her hometown and not feeling safe. But she also knew that the likelihood that she’d be attacked in broad daylight was slim, so it was probably better to prepare herself for whatever problems were awaiting her at home.

  Ellie knew she couldn’t understand what it was like to rush off to serve one’s country only to be sent home permanently injured from a training accident, but—but at the same time, a body could make the most of things. It had been her dream to work on a trawler when she was a girl, back before she’d learned that women had a place in the world, and it wasn’t on board a fishing boat. That wasn’t the same thing—she knew it wasn’t. But she’d found a way to be happy enough, and felt her father could too, if only he wasn’t too proud to have it said he’d come down in the world.

  Like how her father wouldn’t go out on her skiff with her, as they’d used to do before he went off to war. It wasn’t that he couldn’t—he just needed a little help getting in and out was all, and a cushion or two to support his hip while they fished. They’d done it a few times, right after he’d come home, until one of the old men at the marina had cracked wise about what a shame it was. Ellie had snapped back at Fred that it would be better for him to mind his own business, but the damage had been done. Her father wouldn’t go out again with her, even years later.

  The house on Cedar Street looked homey enough, shaded by spreading maple trees and surrounded by a wild tangle of raspberry bushes, but Ellie did not anticipate any sort of happy domestic tableau awaiting her inside. She touched her pocket, taking comfort in her night’s earnings nestled deep and safe there like some sleeping creature. Her mother would be pleased, at least.

  Her father . . . he wasn’t against sending Lester to the medical college, but neither was he excited by the idea of a doctor in the family, as Ellie and her mother were. He was too disappointed that his dream of a strapping son to follow in his footsteps had been thwarted twice, once by Ellie being born a girl, and the second time when Lester contracted polio.

  Her father’s attitude didn’t let him see how fortunate it was that the disease hadn’t affected Lester’s mind. He was brilliant. He had to go to school, but the scholarship from New York Medical College only covered tuition; they wouldn’t pay for his room and board, his books, the clothes he must have, and the other incidentals such as the pocket money that Lester would need to socialize with his peers, all of which had quickly become all too real once he’d been accepted. The “fees” in particular were astounding; that word didn’t seem to mean the same thing to the college that it had always meant to her.

  They didn’t have enough to cover it all, even with her father’s pension and what Lester brought home from working as the local veterinarian’s assistant. The few dollars her mother brought in teaching piano helped—as did Ellie selling bait clams, bootlegging, and fishing for their suppers—but her hope that by scrimping and saving and hustling they’d have what they needed by this time in the summer had not come to pass. An unexpected doctor’s bill had set them back, as had a leak in their roof. Gabriel had fixed it at cost, but that didn’t mean free. It all added up so quic
kly.

  “Oh, there you are.” Ellie’s mother didn’t look up from chopping carrots and potatoes from their little garden when Ellie came in the back door. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “Sorry about that.” Ellie knew she couldn’t avoid a fuss any longer. “So, Ma—”

  At Ellie’s raspy voice, Harriet West looked up. “Oh my goodness,” she cried, dropping her knife. Ellie pulled her mother out of the way of the shining blade as it bounced once and skittered across the wooden floor. “What happened to you?” she asked, taking in Ellie’s black eye and bruised neck and other abrasions.

  “I got caught in the storm and I slipped.” Ellie tried to smile, but judging from her mother’s reaction, she must look more ghastly that way. “Looks worse than it is, I promise.”

  “What’s all the commotion?” Ellie’s father’s voice reached them from the living room.

  “Nothing, Pop,” called Ellie.

  “He’ll find out sooner or later,” said her mother quietly as she picked up her knife and washed it off.

  “So he’ll find out later. Anyway, I finished my run.” Ellie handed over the cash in her pocket.

  “I was worried about you, Ellie, not the money . . . but thank you. You know it helps so much.” Ellie flushed with pride as her mother immediately tucked the cash into the little leather wallet she kept in the top drawer of her desk.

  “What’s going on in there?”

  Ellie’s flush changed to one of annoyance. Her father could get up and come into the kitchen; he just chose not to. And yet Lester had managed to come down from his bedroom and into the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about.

  “Ellie, you’re hurt,” he exclaimed. In a commanding tone at odds with his slender limbs and elfin features, he said, “Sit down; let me look at you.”

  As Lester delicately prodded her nose and around her eyes with his long fingers, Ellie felt certain he had a brilliant career ahead of him in medicine. He had a more sensitive touch than the local doctor—likely because his bedside manner had been formed working with spooked horses and hurt dogs.