The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  THE SILVER GUN

  L.A. CHANDLAR

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Epigraph

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  EPILOGUE

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by LA Chandlar

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1342-1

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1342-7

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1341-4

  Dedicated to the wonderful performing arts schools of New York City and a special thank you to the Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts. You have carried the torch that Fiorello LaGuardia lit over eighty years ago. You give the city a soul and a bright future. He would be proud.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Thirties in New York City was the age of Art Deco; a modern place of grand architecture, chic fashion, and unfettered ingenuity. It was a time of brokenness, but we don’t hear enough about the fact that it was also a time of Depression-defying wit, art, and innovation. It was the era of soup lines, and at the same time, the era of the cocktail. According to art historian David Garrard Lowe, Art Deco inspired an “unabashed advocacy of beauty,” and its exhilarating influence was felt in every sphere. Women were assuming new roles and responsibilities in the workforce, skyscrapers were being erected in staggering numbers at a seemingly impossible pace, and people everywhere began to feel the compelling hope that perhaps they weren’t the lost generation after all. Perhaps they were the generation that created beauty out of turmoil. They didn’t just survive. They lived. The Art Deco Mystery Series seeks to bring life to characters and stories that embody that very spirit. The indomitable spirit of 1930s New York City ushered in a whole new era for the world. An era that has left its mark on every decade since.

  Paris is self-consciously beautiful;

  New York, careless of beauty, is thrilling.

  —From New York: City of Cities, by Hulbert Footner, 1937

  The ashes of the cigarette struck the rocks with sparks and bloodred cinders. The wind beneath the bridge played with the wisps of smoke coming from the tip, making spidery webs in the air. The rising sun splashed a honey-colored glow on the buildings. From the shore, a trumpet, of all things, blew loud and clear like a call. The hooded head turned up abruptly, alert like a hunter on the prowl. Ready. At ease, knowing that it would come full circle. Destiny was working its odd magic. Like he said it would.

  Something bright appeared at the edge of the bridge—halting, tipping, and then falling. The eyes beneath the dark hood followed it carefully, one corner of the mouth curving slightly into a gratified grin. The shining bit of destiny hit the shore just out of reach of the water on a small hill of gravel. The figure gracefully slunk across the shore, an arm slowly reaching out like a white snake about to grasp its prey. The coveted reward. The one he’d said was worth waiting for. The hand gripped the handle and tenderly pocketed the prize.

  The cigarette was thrown to the ground, discarded. A lingering whistle echoed softly in the breeze as the hooded figure drifted up the shore into Manhattan.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It really does take a team of wonderful people to take a book from an idea, to the first draft, to a better draft, and on and on until it’s read in its final version.

  My profound thanks to my husband, Bryan, who witnessed my satisfied tears the first time I wrote those magical words The End. You’ve been my best friend and the one who knows just how much my writing and my stories mean to me. You have my heart and my eternal gratitude. To my amazing sons, Jack and Logan, you have been so supportive and compassionate during the hard parts of “putting yourself out there” and have celebrated joyously with the victories. You’re just the best.

  My thanks to my first readers of what my friend Suzy calls the SFD. The Shitty First Draft. You were my cheerleaders and careful critics. I love you dearly: Judy and Fred Freeland, Bob and Lin Cracknell, Alicia Horvath, Arlee Leo, Michelle Beaker, Mindy Kaspari, Angela Koch, Colleen Fleshood, Patty Oeffinger, Beth Ann Harper, Melissa Moskowitz, Amy Liblong, and Christy Krispin. I would also like to thank Amy Elizabeth Bennett for your splendid early round of editing. To Suzy Welch, I so appreciate your guidance and encouragement in this whole process. And thanks to Heather Greenberg for loving history with me, and for your excellent counsel with regard to dear Vincent van Gogh.

  Thank you so much to my crew of friends who have been super supportive and encouraging through talking things over a coffee (or a wine . . . or a martini), asking great questions, and just being interested. It has meant so much! Thank you, Pam Mittman, Heather Greenberg, Meredith Berkowitz, Karen Reeves, Troy and Allison Patterson, Don and Darla Wilson, and Jeff and Mindy Kaspari.

  Thank you to James Romaine, for the fantastic lecture on Vincent van Gogh. I obviously never forgot the way you pointed out your subconscious is working out, or perhaps, in my case, eclipsed memories of the past? A past I was still piecing together.

  The piece I’d already figured out was the dark brown eyes. If this were a novel, those intense eyes might bring a sense of fear or unease. Perhaps they’d be a harbinger of my death and open up a vast mystery.

  Surprisingly, those eyes were the only part of my dreams that absolutely brought me comfort. Were they the eyes of a long-lost love? No. Were they the sinister yet sed
uctive eyes of a criminal? No. Tall, dark, and handsome stranger? Try squat, rather tubby Italian who never stopped moving and was, most of the time, bellowing. Which was actually occurring downstairs right this second.

  I jumped out of bed, threw on my favorite black skirt and white blouse with the long, full sleeves, raced a washcloth around my face, brushed my dark brown hair, tossed on some mascara and bright red lipstick, slipped on my high-heeled red Mary Janes, and ran down the stairs to greet that bellower. Who just happened to be my boss and a friend of the family.

  He was also the ninety-ninth mayor of New York City: Fiorello LaGuardia.

  “Good morning, Laney Lane, my girl!” boomed a voice loud enough to be worthy of a six-foot-eight giant versus this five-foot-two, rotund man.

  “Grrrrr,” I replied. I only went by Lane. Lane Sanders. And I happened to take a perverse pleasure in never telling him, or anyone, for that matter, whether Lane was my full name or a nickname. Plus, his voice was loud enough to be a giant’s but also very screechy, especially before breakfast.

  “Good morning, Aunt Evelyn,” I said as I strode right past him, across the dining room, and gave my aunt a quick kiss on her soft cheek.

  My Aunt Evelyn—Evelyn Thorne—was a marvelous mix of classy city lady and bohemian artist.

  Her jet black hair was neatly pinned up, and she was sporting a crisp, navy blue pinstriped dress. I smiled to myself at the stark contrast of her attire this morning compared to her red skirt and her long hair trailing down her back while she was painting in her studio last night. Her childhood in France and Italy gave her a worldly and almost exotic air mixed with an earthy authenticity that loved to dare convention.

  She smiled up at me from the breakfast table laden with scrumptious-smelling scones, eggs, and sausages. Her eyes crinkled with amusement at the exchange between Fiorello and me.

  “Were you dreaming again, dear?” she asked. Her eyes squinted slightly as she expertly analyzed my face.

  “I don’t have dark circles under my eyes, do I?” I asked as I contemplated running back upstairs for some face powder.

  “Oh, no, not at all, Lane, not this morning. I can just tell,” she replied. I had no doubt about that. Aunt Evelyn’s intuition and attention to detail were uncanny at times.

  I turned to the buzzing and humming human being I had swept past. Fiorello was in a consistent state of perpetual motion, but especially if he had not been greeted properly. Having had him suffer sufficiently, I rounded on him with a huge grin and cocked eyebrow. “And you, my cantankerous friend. How are you this morning?”

  I heard his chuckle as I dove to the table, eating what I could as fast as human digestion and general dignity could handle, for I knew he would give me mere seconds to eat before we had to bolt out the door.

  “All right,” he began, with eyes still smiling but with an air of getting down to business. “We have a lot to do today. I was just telling Evelyn that I have a meeting with my commissioners this morning.” He said this with a great roll of his eyes. Most of the time, his commissioners were the bane of his existence.

  He continued, “. . . a meeting with Roger down at the docks to discuss the conditions at the dock houses and . . .” He went on and on about the day’s activities as I slurped down a cup of tea and loaded up a scone with homemade strawberry curd and butter.

  Mr. Kirkland came in and scooped some scrambled eggs onto my plate. Even though I had lived with them for over thirteen years, John Kirkland was still a bit of a mystery to me. I would have thought that Aunt Evelyn would require a butler and cook who would be refined and stern in a European fashion. He was anything but that; Mr. Kirkland’s craggy face was weather-worn but appealing. I liked how his light gray hair was somewhat unfashionably long, touching his collar; how his eyes were tough, blue, and intelligent. He looked more suited to being captain of a sea vessel, barking orders to swarthy sea mates while battling hurricanes and pirates.

  He had been with Aunt Evelyn since before I came to live with her when I was ten. He kept to himself and never really talked with me at great length, other than his usual muttering with the colorful language that also reminded one of seafaring life. And much to Aunt Evelyn’s chagrin, I couldn’t help but pick up a few of his more colorful words here and there.

  As I ate my breakfast, last night’s dream kept tapping my shoulder like an insistent child trying to get my attention. So I began walking down the lane of the old memories it triggered.

  It was the music I remembered most. The early Twenties was ripe with new sounds and new life. Our Victrola played them all: Paul Whiteman, Trixie Smith, Al Jolson. Songs like “Toot, Toot, Tootsie! Goodbye” and “Three O’Clock in the Morning.” They were always the backdrop to every memory, every feeling. My parents owned a bookstore on Main Street in Rochester, Michigan, and our brown Tudor-style house had a lovely garden in the back.

  My attention snapped back to the present as I heard Fiorello say, as he did every day, “We’ve got work to do!” He started to bolt out the door, which meant I’d better follow or be left behind.

  “Bye, Aunt Evelyn! Bye, Mr. Kirkland!” I yelled as I grabbed my large purse with my two notebooks tucked inside.

  One I always carried with me to take notes. The other was my prized possession: a deep red leather notebook with engraved curls and leaves around the edges. It was filled with notes and mementos from my parents and it never left my side. With my bag securely over my shoulder, I ran out the door after Fiorello.

  His legs moved rapidly down 80th Street toward Lexington, where we’d pick up the subway at 77th. In my high heels, I was actually much taller than Fio, but his commanding presence more than made up for his height. I never felt taller than him. I had to fairly run (not an easy task, but damn, I loved those red shoes) to keep up with his pace. As he walked, he started to rapid-fire tasks for me to do for the day. I brought out my notepad and took down copious details.

  We took a variety of routes to work every day, depending on Fio’s mood and whom he wanted to see on his way in. Sometimes we took one of the elevated trains down Second or Third Avenue, sometimes the subway down Lexington, or, once in a while, his car and driver would pick us up. When we came to Lexington and started south, we went past Butterfield Market with its heavenly aroma of baking bread wafting out. The many languages of the city rolled around us, making the energy and bustle of the thousands of people heading to work and school that day a physical force so palpable you could almost touch it. Packs of children were being walked to school while packs of dogs were being given their morning exercise. There was Murrey’s Jewelry store, which had just opened, with sparkling rings and bracelets in the window; the shoe store with its tantalizing new spring line; the dusty newspaper stands . . . I loved this city. It was challenging, stimulating, vibrant. A place of many layers and depth.

  I was writing as fast as I could, fortunately using the shorthand I learned in high school. It looked like Sanskrit, but it was infinitely faster than longhand, especially when trying to keep up with the Little Flower—that’s what Fiorello means in Italian. He was only called that by people who loved him, but I never really could tell how he felt about that. His small stature seemed to haunt him. He acted like he was at least six-foot-four, but in actuality he was always looking up at people. He had a bust of Napoleon in his office.

  Mr. LaGuardia was loud, abrasive, rude, purposeful, fast, incredibly intelligent, sometimes scary; did I mention loud? And yet he was also kind, generous, intuitive, and something I could never put my finger on.... Wary? Insecure? I don’t know. He was an enigma at the same time that his feelings were written all over his face.

  I loved my job. I interviewed for the job right when Mr. LaGuardia took office two years ago, and after an hour of back-and-forth discussion (rather like a speed game of ping-pong), I was hired. I started in the secretary pool for over a year. Then, at the youthful age of twenty-three, I was recently promoted to Mayor Fiorello La Guardia’s personal aide.

&nb
sp; We clanked down the two flights of steps at 77th, and Mr. LaGuardia said, “Good morning” and, “How are ya?” to many people, interspersed with things like, “Tell that Fletcher guy I’m watching him!” and, “Hey, Micky, how ya doin’? Tell your pop I hope he’s feeling better.”

  We stopped, finally, at the end of the platform. I pointed and flexed my foot, working out the usual high-heel cramps. I felt someone brush up against me from behind; it was a mother with two young boys pulling on her arms, both prattling on to her at the same time. She looked tired, but she was smiling.

  My eyes flicked behind her, and my stomach lurched with a sickening drop. Standing there was one of the scariest men I’d ever seen in my life, which is saying a lot, since I worked in the mayor’s office. He was a grungy white man with a grungier brown hat smashed on top of his head, a stained white shirt, a grotesque stomach jutting out over wherever his belt would have been, and a slimy black cigar poking out of his mouth. All that was enough, but it was his face that sent a ripple of fear into me. His eyes were mean and flat but hinted that something was lurking back there. His nose encased a dense collection of black, bristly nose hairs poking out. He locked eyes with me for one second. I blinked and looked down as he gurgled a satisfied grunt at my unease. Just then, the train roared into the station.

  Fio glared at me. “Lane? You with me? You okay?”

  I looked at him and said, “Do you see that guy watching us?” I turned, but he was gone.

  “What guy? Watching us?” he asked.

  “He’s gone.” Before I could say more, the train stopped, the doors swung open, and a mass of humanity crushed its way onto the train. The train lurched downtown with all of us packed into place with someone’s elbow in my back and a corner of a briefcase poking my thigh. I couldn’t get that guy out of my mind.