Down the block, Inspector Stone leaned against the black sedan talking to his partner behind the wheel.
“Hey, Jake.” Danny crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe as I headed toward the sedan with my cane. “You want I should go with you?”
Growing up, Gino and I often asked Danny along because of his intimidating size. “I’d appreciate it. I want to set a couple of cops straight.”
“Figured as much.” Danny caught up to me, and we headed down the sidewalk. “We still ain’t friends.”
“We’ve been friends since we were kids.”
“Yeah, well, we ain’t kids no more.”
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s for a good cause, putting cops in their place.”
I nodded toward the black sedan. “Inspector Stone and Detective Hawkins. You know them?”
“Stone used to come in with Mickey from time to time. Okay guy … for a cop. Hawkins is a weasel. If he can’t prove someone’s guilty, he’ll make something up and hope it sticks.”
That was my take on the guy.
As Danny and I reached the black sedan, Stone dropped the cigarette and crushed the butt beneath a well-worn shoe. “Jake Donovan. I see you brought some muscle. How they hanging, Danny?”
Danny leaned against a light pole and glared at the two cops. “Jake and me are friends, from school.”
Behind the wheel, Detective Hawkins slipped the notebook from his suit coat pocket, checked his watch, and jotted down the time. Organized as usual.
I set one hand on the roof of the car. “I thought I’d save you some time following me around, Detective. I have a witness who saw the shooting and can identify the driver of the black sedan as a man named Paul Cummings.”
Hawkins exchanged a glance with his partner. “This fella who can ID Cummings got a name?”
“The witness is a woman.”
Hawkins displayed his usual arrogance. “Any dame out the time of night you and Mickey were shot must be a streetwalker. Why should I believe some hooker you probably paid off?”
Danny crossed his thick arms. “ ’Cause Jake ain’t like that. He says something, it’s the truth.”
Thanks, Danny.
Hawkins drummed his fingers on the door. “I’ll need to chat with your witness.”
“I have to clear it with her first.”
“Where do we find this Paul Cummings?” Stone asked.
Danny hawked a load of spit that splattered next to Stone’s shoe. “Why don’t you ask Jake to slap cuffs on the guy and drop him by the station while he’s at it?”
“Supposedly he hangs out at a pool hall. Don’t know which one.”
Stone chuckled. “More pool halls in New York than fleas on a junkyard dog.”
“One more thing. If you see Tony Vales, tell him he’s after the wrong guy, same as you.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Donovan.” Sarcasm dripped with Stone’s every word. “We’re going to the theater tonight. I’ll bring that up between acts.” He climbed into the car.
As they drove away, Danny and I headed back to The Yankee Club. I had to track down Paul Cummings. First, I had a phone call to make. “Thanks. I owe you.”
“Owe me? You still owe me a bike.”
Frankie dropped me off outside the Broadway entrance to Central Park and handed me my cane. The leg pain had eased considerably without the stitches. Although I could walk without the cane, one never knew when the dagger might be necessary.
I entered the park, half expecting someone to follow. I was relieved I didn’t pick up on anyone.
On a bench inside the park, Lillian Hellman tossed bread crumbs to a small flock of pigeons. A thin package sat beside her. She finished, brushed her hands, and held them out to the birds. “That’s all, folks.”
Her red hair glistened in the sun as she stood and waved.
I gave her a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”
“You being followed?”
I peered over my shoulder and shook my head. “No, why?”
“The way you looked around when you stepped out of the car.” She tucked the package under her arm, and we headed down the path. “I have to thank you. Not sure how you did it, but Dashiell seems to have given up his quest to return to detective work. I left him pounding away on the typewriter.”
A gust of wind nearly took my hat off. “I doubt I can take credit for that.”
She grinned. “It might have something to do with the article in the Times about you being questioned by the police in a murder investigation. You in trouble, Jake?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. You and Dashiell know more about politics than anyone I know. I was wondering if you’ve heard of the Blackshirts.”
“There’s a growing number here in the city that’s adopted the same tactics. They’re fascist to the core and just as ruthless as their Italian mentors.”
“I haven’t discovered who shot Mickey, but the driver is a member. He’s Jamaican and hangs out at some pool hall.”
“Sure. Blackshirt headquarters is the second floor above Al’s Pool Hall in Hoboken. That should give you an idea of how sophisticated they are. You might find him there, but be careful.” She touched my arm. “These bums are brutal and determined to gain power.”
As we continued up the path, I realized how different Central Park appeared. I stopped and gazed around. Where was all the activity I remembered from the old days? People occupied benches as if they had nowhere else to go. The place that once brought so much joy to everyone now seemed to be a gathering place for the hopeless. “Where are the kids and couples holding hands?”
“We live in troubled times. A widening gap between those with money and those with nothing and little hope.”
Central Park mirrored the country. Once festive and vibrant, now dreary and almost frightening. “Knowing you and Dashiell, I bet you’re working to change that.”
“We do what we can.” A gust of wind pushed a clattering tin can along the path as we strolled through the park. “I’m glad you called. I was going to call you. I need your help.”
“What can I do?”
She sat on a bench and set the package beside her. “I finished my first play. I pitched it to a producer who’s interested, but I’m not sure it’s as good as it could be.”
I glanced at the package and sat beside her. “What does Dashiell say?”
She brushed a strand of windswept hair from her eyes. “He loves me, so he’s crazy about it. I need a writer who’ll give me the straight scoop.”
I’d only been a serious writer for five years. Although the public loved Blackie, some critics described my work as pulp fiction. I felt honored that a talented writer like Lillian Hellman valued my literary opinion. “I’d be happy to read it.”
She handed me the package. “The title is The Children’s Hour. A spoiled rich student at a private school makes up a lie about two teachers, accusing them of having an affair, and ruins their lives. I’m worried it’s not edgy enough. I want this to be different, something folks will remember when they leave the theater.”
I tugged on the string, unwrapped the package, and checked my watch. “I have time now.”
“You’re the best.” She kissed my cheek then headed toward the Great Lawn in the center of the park.
By the middle of the first act, the play had hooked me. What an evil little girl. I’d read all of Laura’s plays and Dashiell’s screenplay for The Thin Man. This was better written, but a play about a man and a woman accused of having an affair hardly seemed unique.
I finished and set the script beside me. Lillian paced in front of a bench down the path, puffing on a cigarette. I smiled, and she hurried to my side.
I handed her the play. “I wish I could write like this.”
“Don’t tell me what I want to hear. Tell me what I need to know.”
“It’s compelling and beautifully written.”
“But …”
I pointed down the path with my cane.
“Let’s walk.” The path led us past a man helping a small girl fly a kite. He was dressed in expensive shoes and a tailored suit, the girl in a red satin dress and a straw hat with a white ribbon. He grabbed the end of the string and ran. It appeared as if he’d never flown a kite, but at least he tried. The kite soared then crashed into the grass.
The girl stomped off. “Daddy, I want an ice-cream cone!”
Her father left the kite and ran after his spoiled daughter.
As we walked, I pointed out the weakness I saw in the play. Sex between two single people lacked sufficient edge to keep theatergoers riveted—in my opinion anyway.
Lillian nodded. “You’re right. I appreciate your honesty.”
We stopped at the edge of the Great Lawn. I couldn’t believe the change since my last visit: scores of tents and shacks erected from scrap lumber, sheets of rusted metal, and canvas that flapped in the wind—a shantytown in the center of the world’s greatest city. I felt sorry for the city, the park, but most of all the people who had nowhere else to go.
Lillian’s face sagged. She held up the play. “Puts the problem I have with The Children’s Hour in perspective.”
Except for the soup kitchen with Belle, I hadn’t seen the effects of the Depression up close. How blind could I be? “This has been going on while I’ve been consumed with my own petty problems.”
“These sprout up in every city. Hoovervilles.”
I’d never seen a Hooverville in Florida. What a self-centered bastard I’d become. “Roosevelt’s got his work cut out for him.”
“I’m worried extremists from both sides will keep him from being successful. I’m talking communists and fascists.”
If she only knew about the threat from the Golden Legion.
We walked around the encampment. I tried not to stare. A little girl with a dirty face wandered away from two adults attending a small fire. She began to gather twigs and sticks. She pointed to my cane as we walked by. “What happened to you?”
“I … I fell down.”
“I hope you get better.” The little girl with nothing wished me better fortune.
Lillian whispered, “And I gave a loaf of bread to the birds.”
“Wait here.” I hurried down the path and came over a rise. I grabbed the abandoned kite. I returned. Lillian chatted with the girl and her parents.
I clutched the string closest to the kite. I held it aloft and let the string slide through my fingers, allowing the breeze to do the rest. The girl watched as I let out the string, and the red kite sailed into the blue sky. As the wind pulled the kite higher, I let out more string.
Several other children appeared from nowhere. I handed the string to the girl.
Her eyes sparkled, perhaps for the first time in a long while, as the kite gave a slow dance in the breeze. “Daddy, look.”
Lillian took my arm in hers as we walked away. “You’re a good man, Jake Donovan. You’ll make a terrific father.”
“She deserves fun in her life just as much as the rich girl.”
Lillian nodded.
On the way back we approached a bench where two women sat in ragged clothes. The woman in a cap had her arms around the other. She kissed the top of her head as Lillian and I passed by.
Several steps later, Lillian glanced back at the two women then stopped and grabbed my shoulders. “That’s it!”
“What?”
“The Children’s Hour. The student doesn’t make up a story about a man and woman having an affair. She makes up the lie about two female teachers.”
I thought about her idea. “That would give the plot more of an edge. Critics would love it.”
Her eyes glittered with possibilities. “The student spreads rumors that the two women are lesbians. That’ll work so much better, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re right.”
Lillian excitedly chatted about the play and how the change would impact the plot. She couldn’t wait to tell Dashiell.
“Flower for the lady, mister?” A thin vendor with a green cart full of assorted flowers held out a small bouquet. He wore a Brooklyn Dodgers cap and a gap-toothed smile.
Lillian shook her head, and we walked on.
“What’s the matter, buddy? You a Yankee fan?”
Something wasn’t right about this guy. “What did you say?”
Lillian tugged me forward. “Don’t let him ruin your day.”
“Cheap bastard,” the vendor called out.
I forced myself to walk away. At the edge of the park, Lillian clutched the play to her chest. “I can’t wait to make the changes.”
I glanced back up the path, but the flower vendor had moved on.
Outside the Broadway entrance, Frankie stood beside the sedan smoking a cigarette. Apparently Gino’s hangover cure worked. He crushed the butt under his shoe and flashed a thumbs-up.
I hailed a cab for Lillian.
“Jake, it’s none of my business, but Laura’s making a huge mistake marrying an old money snake like Spencer Dalrymple.”
I didn’t want to lie to a friend like Lillian. “I can’t talk about it.”
She patted my hand. “I understand. Must be painful to lose her to someone like him.”
She didn’t understand at all, and I couldn’t explain.
A cab pulled up. The driver hopped out and held open the rear door.
I gave Lillian a hug. “Thanks for the information on the Blackshirts.”
“I’m not sure I should’ve told you about the pool hall.” She climbed into the backseat. “Be careful, Jake.” She waved as the cab sped away.
Frankie dropped me off at The Diamond House. I looked into the car. “Go home and make up with Edith.”
“I just might do that.” He grinned and drove off.
Inside, I checked my hat and cane. A waiter escorted me to the Greenwoody table where Oliver sat between Peggy and Dorothy. He rose and shook my hand with the firm grip I remembered. With a glitzy diamond necklace and a sequined gown, his wife wore an amused look of triumph on her face. Dorothy, in a gold clingy dress with more than a hint of cleavage, flashed a playful smile.
I sat next to Dorothy who smiled demurely. To my relief she acted much less aggressive toward me in the presence of her parents.
Every few minutes someone came by and clapped Oliver on the back, wished him well, or asked for his autograph. On each occasion his wife and daughter puffed up with pride.
Oliver and Peggy drank scotch while Dorothy and I stuck to coffee. Over the meal, we chatted about novels, the theater, and the Greenwoody Estate in Virginia. I enjoyed dinner and almost forgot my true purpose, to learn whether Oliver Greenwoody had a connection to the Golden Legion.
After the meal, Dorothy and her mother excused themselves and headed for the ladies’ room.
Greenwoody removed a cigar, gave it a good sniff, then stuffed it back in his suit coat. “Thank you for not steering the conversation toward politics. The rise of fascism or talk of Roosevelt bores my wife.” He nodded toward his daughter’s empty chair. “Dorothy appears smitten by you.”
“She’s a lovely girl, but as I assured you at the Dalrymple Estate, I have no romantic interest.”
His brow furrowed. “Most men around Dorothy are like bears around honey.”
“My existence is too unsettled to consider a relationship.”
He nodded knowingly. “You’re still getting over your relationship with a famous Broadway actress.”
“That was in the past. Miss Wilson’s moved on, as have I.”
“You moved to Florida. Doesn’t mean you’ve moved on.”
Touché. Peggy and Dorothy passed the dance floor where a band played an up-tempo Lindy Hop number. I had little time but had to sound casual. “What are your thoughts on the president’s New Deal?”
He banged a fist on the table, nearly spilling his drink. “Socialism!” People at nearby tables watched. He lowered his voice. “With the economy in shambles my big fear is the spread of communis
m. Like much of Europe, this country faces a red menace.”
“You think Roosevelt can stem the growing tide of communism?”
“This country needs a strong military leader to do what’s necessary, like …” He glanced over his shoulder as the two women approached.
“Like …”
“Benito Mussolini.” He gave me a dismissive wave. “Don’t look so shocked, Mr. Donovan. Not the brutality of the Mussolini government, but the efficiency.”
I managed a lie to gain his trust. “I couldn’t agree more.”
He winked at me as the two women reached the table. Peggy sat beside her husband. “Oliver, you’re not boring Mr. Donovan with talk of politics, are you?”
Finding out a hero I’d long admired favored a fascist like Mussolini was hardly boring.
Dorothy slipped into her chair. “Do you dance, Mr. Donovan?”
“I used to cut a rug before I was shot. Now I might be able to manage a slow song.”
Oliver chuckled. “A waltz is about my limit.”
The song ended, and the band began “Isn’t It Romantic?” Peggy jumped to her feet and held her hand out to her husband. With a look of surrender, he escorted his wife to the dance floor.
“A slow song.” Dorothy took my hand. Halfway to the dance floor she smiled. “Isn’t it romantic?” She smirked. “Don’t look so frightened. I was referring to the title of the song.”
On the dance floor I held her at a respectable distance. “That’s a lovely dress.”
“I wore it for you.” The room felt suddenly warmer. She moved closer and pressed her cheek against mine. Wearing the same appealing fragrance as the night before, she hummed the tune to the Rodgers and Hart song and swayed gracefully in my arms. “You dance divinely for someone with a bullet in your leg and an arrow in your heart,” she smiled, “for a certain Broadway actress.”
I ignored the comment about Laura. “It helps to have a lovely woman in my arms.”
“How was your meal?”
“The chicken was very tasty.”
“Which did you enjoy the most,” she cocked her head and smiled, “the breast or the thigh?”
I wasn’t comfortable with the direction of the conversation. I nodded to her parents several couples over.
The Yankee Club Page 14
