Death in The Life
Page 22
“You, there, what are you doing?”
“Looking,” O’Grady said and stood up to his full height, six foot one. Then he thought, to hell with it: they were going to meet later, why not sooner? “I’m O’Grady,” he said.
Rubinoff was short and soft, if not fat. He wore a blue silk suit fresh from the cleaner’s, but he looked a bit soiled nonetheless. He stared up at O’Grady, furious, his dark, protruding eyes slightly bloodshot. “What are you doing here?”
“Wondering if you’d give me a ride uptown, if that’s where you’re going.”
“We were not to meet until I contacted you.”
“I felt responsible for what’s in there until your arrival.” O’Grady nodded toward the gallery.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“I didn’t like what I seen in there, Mr. Rubinoff. You came near to losing it to the young woman, didn’t you?”
“What happened in there is none of your business.”
The little street arab came and stood looking up at them from one to the other, hoping no doubt they would come to blows. And people had begun to come out of the gallery.
“Get in,” Rubinoff said.
O’Grady went around the car and when Rubinoff opened the door to him he got in backside first and swung his legs in, his knees just clearing the dashboard.
Rubinoff opened the roof vent. He started the motor, revved it a time or two, and took off, bouncing from pothole to pothole. After a couple of blocks he pulled over and stopped. He fastened his seat belt, easing it under his belly. He seemed unable to bring himself to even ask O’Grady where he was going.
O’Grady didn’t like him, but he was well aware that without the next step all that had gone before would be for naught. Or worse. “Look, man. We’re in this together, no matter who’s fore or who’s aft. It’s true, I wasn’t supposed to be there, but it’s a lonely business to be on the waiting end of a thing like this, and damned frightening to see how close it came to disaster.”
“You simply do not know what you’re talking about. If I had moved any sooner, there are people in that crowd who’d have said I was a shill for Maude Sloan, and that unfortunate young fool would not have sold another canvas.”
“Are people buying them?”
Rubinoff ignored the question. “I have a reputation for taste. As it is now, Maude thinks I did her a favor. She knows the boy is an atrocious painter.”
At least he was talking to him, O’Grady realized. He had never thought much of the pictures himself, but he put that down to his own ignorance. Rubinoff kept riling the motor: the Porsche sounded like a beast growling to be set loose. “I don’t think Ginni had a very wide choice, Mr. Rubinoff. And it was to coax Ginni home that her mother agreed to give him the show.”
“I know as much as I need to know,” Rubinoff said. “I only hope your Ginni has not been too clever for her own good—for the good of all of us.”
“Her calculations have worked till now.”
“So it would seem.” Rubinoff sighed and turned in his seat as though he could finally bear to look at him. “Sean O’Grady, is it?” He offered his hand, a wet sponge that O’Grady wrung lightly.
“Most people call me Johnny. Sean’s my professional name.”
Rubinoff put the car in motion. “Where do you want to go?”
“I’m going to McGowan’s Bar and Grill on Forty-fifth and Ninth, but you can drop me anywhere midtown.”
They turned north on Sixth Avenue.
“You’re an actor?” Rubinoff asked, harking back to the professional name.
“I’m a merchant seaman, but I read a bit of poetry now and then from the stage—you might say for political purposes.”
Rubinoff threw him a furtive glance. You had to know that politics was not his game. An aging fag, O’Grady decided, which was sad. Except that he had money, at least a part of which had to be legitimate. Otherwise he would not have been all that persona grata among the crowd at the gallery. Or with Ginni. This was no caper for a common crook. An uncommon one maybe.
Rubinoff said, “I haven’t seen Maude for years. She used to be a beautiful woman. Would you believe it?”
“I would, knowing the daughter.”
“Do you know her well?” He trailed the word out in a way that you could not escape its meaning.
“Intimately.” O’Grady laid it on heavier than he might have with another man.
“Oh, dear,” Rubinoff said, as though he didn’t approve of intimacy.
“This operation might never have come off otherwise, Mr. Rubinoff.”
The man looked at him with amazement.
“Watch the road,” O’Grady said and then went on defensively: “She knew who she was picking. It was no small matter, bumping another seaman from his berth at Naples in order to take his place. Otherwise, how would I have been on the docks here to get our boy through customs?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Rubinoff shook his head. Nor did he want to know.
But O’Grady was determined to rub his snooty nose in the dirty end of the business. “It was a good fight till the police broke it up. And in the end they did my work for me, giving the poor bastard a crack on the skull and carting him off to sober up before presenting him to the American Consul. By that time his boat was well out in the Mediterranean and me in his berth.”
“Remarkable,” Rubinoff murmured, patient now, as though deciding it was better that O’Grady unburden himself to him than to a stranger.
“Customs was the easy part. I’ve a friend, an inspector on the Brooklyn docks, see, and every time I’m overseas I bring him back a little vial of Rumanian pills for his mother’s arthritis. All I had to say was I knew the boy, and him and his paintings sailed through without a question.”
Rubinoff made a noise of approval.
Having told it all, O’Grady wished he hadn’t. It didn’t sound like much, laid out. “It’ll be a trickier business, the return trip.”
Rubinoff aimed the Porsche between a bus and a mail truck, both heading into the same lane. The Porsche shot out front like a spurt of toothpaste. Rubinoff drove like a teenager and he had to be fifty.
“You pulled that one off well,” O’Grady said, grudging admiration.
“Tell me a little about Ginni,” Rubinoff said.
“Have you not met her?”
“No.”
“Ah, she’s a wild, beautiful woman. Her father’s a count or some such. He’s well off.”
“That I know.”
“She plays him like a mandolin, coaxing money out of him for this artists’ commune she’s set up.”
“Are they all as talented as Ralph Abel?”
O’Grady laughed. “Don’t be too hard on the lad. Flattery makes fools of the best of us. Ginni’s up to a number of things I don’t think would interest you, Mr. Rubinoff.”
“I dare say.”
“She was on the other end of a commission I had once for an organization I belong to.”
“Shall we leave it at that?”
“If you like, but they were great days,” O’Grady said and lapsed into silence. All in all, they had been the best days in his life.
Johnny, or Sean as he signed himself, was the son of Irish immigrant parents who had nothing in common except their determination to make it to America. With that accomplished, and the seed that became Johnny implanted, the old man took off and thereafter showed up every year or so expecting a celebration of his return. Johnny’s chief recollection of him was chasing Ma around the miserable West Side flat trying to get her into the bedroom. Ma generally made it to the kitchen where she kept the bread knife handy. It was a wonder to O’Grady himself that he had not grown up like Rubinoff. He learned his reading and writing from the nuns as well as a love of Irish song and poetry. Everything he knew that was practical he had learned on the streets. When his mother died, their parish priest had been instrumental in getting him the promise of a job on a deep-water vessel a
nd hence his maritime papers.
O’Grady was thirty-three, handsome in a rough, sandy-haired way except for the cold blue eyes, a feature he could not abide in himself. That his voice was rich and warm was some compensation. From childhood he had been devoted to the cause of a united Ireland, and it was in service to the I.R.A. as a gun procurer that he had met Ginni. She was his Italian-Yugoslavian connection.
He had made two successful runs. The third ended in disaster, and he had had to dump the entire cache into the Galway Bay. He had told himself, answering Ginni’s call in the present matter, that every cent he made on it would go to the Cause. And so it would. But deep down he knew that wasn’t why he was in it. Ginni had set it up, and he was her pigeon.
Stopped at a red light, Rubinoff took a long look at O’Grady. “Now that you have satisfied yourself as to my competence, what do you propose to do for the next two weeks?”
O’Grady overlooked the sarcasm. “Does it have to be two weeks?”
“At least. The show doesn’t close until a week from Sunday.”
“I don’t know. I’m damn near broke financing myself.”
“You’re not to go near the gallery again.”
“I don’t intend to.”
“Nor to get in touch with me. When I’m ready I’ll contact you. You ought not to be in the city at all.”
“It’s my home, man. Where else would I be landside?”
“I understood you would not be landside, as you call it, until afterwards.” They moved ahead with the traffic. “That understanding was one of the conditions of my agreement.”
“With who?” O’Grady said.
Rubinoff kept his eyes on the street. “With whom.”
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About the Author
Dorothy Salisbury Davis is a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America, and a recipient of lifetime achievement awards from Bouchercon and Malice Domestic. The author of seventeen crime novels, including the Mrs. Norris Series and the Julie Hayes Series; three historical novels; and numerous short stories; she has served as president of the Mystery Writers of America and is a founder of Sisters in Crime.
Born in Chicago in 1916, she grew up on farms in Wisconsin and Illinois and graduated from college into the Great Depression. She found employment as a magic-show promoter, which took her to small towns all over the country, and subsequently worked on the WPA Writers Project in advertising and industrial relations. During World War II, she directed the benefits program of a major meatpacking company for its more than eighty thousand employees in military service. She was married for forty-seven years to the late Harry Davis, an actor, with whom she traveled abroad extensively. She currently lives in Palisades, New York.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1976 by Dorothy Salisbury Davis
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
978-1-4804-6035-5
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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