The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  In an effort to think of something else, I tried humming the new song by Bing Crosby, but all I could remember was the part that had the title of the song in it: “Benny’s from heaven . . .” We finally pulled into our station, Brooklyn Bridge–City Hall. We smashed our way back out of the train and up several flights of stairs, and burst out into the refreshing open air at city hall. I straightened my red pillbox hat, which had gotten jostled a bit, and began copying down the onslaught of instructions once more.

  Fio went right to his office after greeting everyone by name. I got to my desk and immediately started organizing my schedule. There was already a lineup of petitioners to see the mayor. From the young man whose wife had gone into labor unexpectedly early and the closest hospital was an expensive one that they couldn’t afford—Fio was sure to get the fees reduced—to the pushcart peddler who had come in to complain that he couldn’t get his license renewed. Fio always listened to each and every person and did something about their problem.

  I helped Fio get through the line of people, listening, directing, and taking down information. Stifling a yawn, I felt the need for coffee and walked over to the coffee room. Fiorello didn’t believe in coffee breaks, so I had to make it quick.

  “Hey, Lane! How ya doin’?” exclaimed Ralph, one of the other aides in the office. Ralph’s curly dark hair fell over his brow, and his smile was wide as he talked at breakneck speed. He was a nice guy; however, he never let me finish a sentence.

  Ralph always knew what was hot to do in town. I could never fathom how much he crammed into a weekend. “Hey, Ralph, what’s up t—” I asked. Before I could finish my greeting, he started in at a pace worthy of a Gilmore Special.

  “There’s a bunch of us going out to Club Monaco tonight, want to come along? I hear there’s a great band, play all the new songs, too, not just the oldies. Hey! Great shoes, Lane. You should wear that red dress you wore last time we went to Wit’s End. You looked amazing. Do you think you could bring Annie?”

  He looked at me expectantly. Ralph had a hopeless crush on Annie, a secretary downstairs. But then again, he had a hopeless crush on a dozen women a month. He was lucky he was so good-natured.

  “Sure, I’ll see if she wants to c—” I tried to reply.

  “Great! Save me a dance, Lane! Gotta run, Mr. Fitzgerald’s extra grouchy today, better get back before he realizes I’ve been ‘Gone too long, Popeye!’ ” He mimicked his surly boss perfectly and flew out the door, managing to throw his empty coffee cup into the garbage can with a very nice backhand. He really did resemble Popeye from the radio show and on the Wheatena box.

  I walked back to my office with my creamy, sugary coffee and looked forward to going to the new Club Monaco. I got to work typing up notes for some points of contention Mr. LaGuardia had on the conditions of the housing organizations, adding up some numbers of the budget for this month, and transcribing my notes from the morning train ride.

  The first meeting of the morning was a big one. It was a Boner Award day. Today’s winner of the monthly award—a sheep bone decorated with ribbons like a Christmas present—was Fire Commissioner McElligott. He burned himself with a firecracker while giving a presentation about the dangers of Fourth of July fireworks.

  The day went along its merry way until after lunch, when stern voices (aka yelling) floated out from Fio’s office. I had learned to diagnose how important the yelling was. There were three categories. Category one: normal yelling that occurred on a daily basis, when Fio was only nominally annoyed at something, like at the Boner Award earlier. Category two: louder yelling accompanied by some desk-thumping and perhaps a pen whipped at the door out of frustration. This often led to a swift departure by the one being yelled at, brisk action taken by the mayor (more rapid-fire notes on my part), and a lot of activity all day long as we metaphorically put out fires to undo the damage that caused the yelling.

  And then there was category three. Ooh, category three. There was usually one big outburst that contained an ominous tone, only one single, loud thump of an agitated fist hitting his desk, and then an eerie quiet that was like the calm before the storm. I usually walked away from my desk at that point, went to the ladies’ room, and basically hid for a few minutes to prepare for battle.

  This event turned out to be a category one. I wrote out a quick note on a minuscule piece of paper that said C1 and went out to the main office toward Val’s desk to give her the alert.

  The entire office full of secretaries and aides was abundantly aware of the categories of our Little Flower. Valerie was my closest friend, and we navigated the office politics together. There had been a bit of a territory war ever since Fio decided to have me, a woman, be an aide versus a secretary. As I walked out to Valerie, I was already receiving dirty looks from my least favorite people: Lizzie and Roxy.

  Val looked over at me with her green eyes flashing. With her light brown hair and thousands of tiny freckles, she looked fantastic as she sported a sage green suit with large buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves.

  Lizzie and Roxy were eyeing me with constipated snarls on their faces. I waved in their direction and smiled, tossing the note to Val. She made some cryptic hand signals, like a catcher to the pitcher, to George across the room, and he ran off to another part of the office to inform them that the yelling was a mere category one.

  “Hey, Short ‘n’ Shorter are particularly snarly today. What’s going on?” I asked Val as I leaned up against her desk. Lizzie and Roxy were very tiny and they had an adorable aura around them that made me feel like a Clydesdale. I looked over at them, noticing how Roxy’s curly white-blond hair hugged her perfectly round face in the latest style. She was very attractive except for the fact that she looked like she was perpetually displeased, or smelled something rotten. Today she had on a gorgeous yellow scarf and matching yellow, curve-hugging sweater that perfectly highlighted her best assets.

  “Oh, they just figured out that since you were made an aide, you actually outrank them in the office.”

  “Just now? But I got that promotion six months ago,” I said, with a quizzical, cocked eyebrow.

  “Yeah, well, they might type like lightning, but the rest of them isn’t so quick,” said Val.

  I looked over at them as Lizzie whispered something to Roxy like a gossipy schoolgirl. Lizzie’s long red hair more than made up for her sort of mousy looks. She had a terrible squint, like she might need glasses, and her shoulders were the tiniest bit hunched (which made me constantly want to scold, Stand up straight!), but with her luxurious hair and wonderful figure, I’m pretty sure no one else noticed. Lizzie and Roxy were devious backstabbers. But they did type like lightning.

  Since word traveled fast around there and I wanted to get back to my desk in case the C1 turned into something else, I said bye to Val and started to walk back. Just as I was getting to my desk, a lean, muscular man came barging out of Fio’s office, and we charged right into each other. He was obviously surprised and said with a soft and rather intoxicating British accent, “Sorry, love.” Before I could blink, he gently took my shoulders, set me aside, and in about three strides, was out the door of the office. The man was quick and efficient, yet I had time to glimpse dark eyes that sparked. And since I had literally run my face right into his collarbone, I also knew he smelled wonderful.

  Just then Fio came out of his office with a crease furrowed between his brows, tapping his lips with his forefinger in thoughtful consideration.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “That man that you were yelling—I mean speaking—with just ran into me, and I didn’t get a chance to meet him,” I said, eyes squinting in assessment.

  He hesitated, tapped his lips one final time, and replied, “Hmm.” Then Fio turned right around and went back into his office, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Later that evening, Valerie and I met up with Ralph and his buddies at Club Monaco like we’d planned. His friend
s were fun and carefree as puppies as we danced all evening. I noticed Val had a particular shine in her eye when she was dancing with a guy named Peter. He was very tall. So it was pleasant, I’m sure, for my tall friend to wear high heels and get to look up at a guy for once.

  I went to get a drink at the glossy black and silver bar and saw Ralph taking a break from the gals and all the dancing.

  “Hi, Ralph,” I said. I told the barkeep, “I’ll have a Bad Romance.”

  “The drink?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

  “I knew you’d say that,” I said, with a smirk.

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “Hey, Lane,” greeted Ralph, with a casual elbow perched on the bar, while scouring the crowd for cute girls. “Great you could come tonight. Looks like Val’s having a good time. Too bad Annie couldn’t come, but it’s a fun night anyway. Hey, don’t forget you said you’d save a dance for me.”

  “Sure, sounds f—,” and he was off and running, having spotted a partnerless gal at the edge of the dance floor. I took a sip of my Bad Romance while I enjoyed the view. In the belly of the cavernous club, dozens of tables surrounded the dance floor, with the band up front. The fifteen-piece band had on white jackets and black pants, and they were playing their hearts out, sweat dropping from their brows. It was hot inside the club with all the people dancing and the many glowing, low candles in the center of each table. My feet were just beginning to ache; I hadn’t sat down the entire evening.

  The club was a swanky place, so Val and I had dressed to the nines. I had on one of my favorite dresses, which was, in fact, the one Ralph had mentioned. The dark red number, almost off the shoulders, short, ruffled sleeves, and the skirt was close-fitting down to where my knees peeked beneath the hemline ruffle. My feet were decked out in black patent leather high heels. I thought about heading home soon. It was nearing midnight, and prying my feet out of these delightful shoes was sounding attractive. Just then someone came up beside me and rested his arms on the bar right next to mine, brushing up against me.

  “How are you, Roarke? I haven’t seen you around much lately.” I smiled up at him. Roarke was a friend who worked across the street from the mayor’s office. He was part of the ever-present press, and his job was to camp out in front of the city offices, waiting for my boss to give him some good headlines. Fio never disappointed.

  “Nice dress, Lane. Want to dance?” Roarke was very easy on the eyes, with sandy blond hair and, to his extreme annoyance, blatant dimples that appeared when he smiled.

  We walked out onto the dance floor, and he took me around the waist with his right hand. Roarke was wearing his signature black and gray, wide-striped suit. He cut a dashing figure with his white shirt, wide black tie, and black and white wingtip shoes. We danced to my favorite song of the month.

  “Benny. Benny’s from heaven . . .” I sang softly to the music.

  “Uh, Lane? It’s pennies. Pennies from heaven,” said Roarke, with a smirk.

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” he said, with a nod.

  “Huh,” I said. For someone with excellent mental recall of events and people, I was terrible with song lyrics. “I like Benny better. Hey, I’m getting hungry. You want to go get something to eat with us?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ve got a lot of work to do, I’d better get something in me,” he replied.

  “Work? Roarke, it’s almost midnight! You got something hot going on?” I asked.

  “Ehhhh. Nah, nothing like that, just some big deadlines coming up.” I didn’t believe a word he said. Roarke was always on the prowl for a good story.

  “Uh-huh. Right,” I said, under my breath. But before I could question him further, he pulled me off the dance floor, yelled to Val to bring Peter along, and shooed us all out of the club. He was like a magnificent border collie herding us effortlessly out the door.

  Outside, the air was much cooler, with a pleasant crispness. I filled my lungs with the fresh air, a delightful sensation after the smoky club.

  “So . . . Marty’s Place?” I questioned. They all barely nodded, as it was our mainstay late-night diner. We started walking, all of us lost in our own thoughts.

  Clearly Val and Peter were only thinking of each other, truly enjoying their time together. They weren’t holding hands, but they leaned into each other as they walked. Roarke was presumably consumed with the story he was working on.

  And me? Well, I just couldn’t stop thinking about two things. All day I found the image of the silver gun with the red scroll coming to mind. My recurring dream had a peculiar strength last night. Why did it make me so nervous? Maybe it was just intensified after I saw that disturbing guy on the subway platform. And secondly, more interestingly, I was thinking about that mysterious visitor of Fio’s. His looks, his cologne, his accent . . .

  Before I could delve into those enticing thoughts any further, a siren broke through my musings as a fire truck raced right by us with an ear-splitting racket. Roarke and I locked eyes and said simultaneously, “Fio!” We started to run down the block after the fire trucks. I yelled back to Val and Peter that we’d see them tomorrow.

  Sure enough, as Roarke and I were all-out sprinting down the block, my sore feet forgotten, a black sedan careened around the corner in pursuit of the engines. In a split second I saw that the driver had dark hair and a maniacal smile full of excitement and childlike glee.

  Fiorello had an insatiable need to be at all the big fires, traffic accidents, and crime scenes in the city. He kept police radios in his office at work, at home, and, believe it or not, in his car (it filled up most of the front seat). If something of interest came up, he jumped into his car and flew like the wind. Most of the time he had a driver, so he had the backseat of his car outfitted with all sorts of useful tools, including a folding desk to get work done while being driven about the city.

  Roarke outstripped me, of course, but when I bounded up to the fire engines, I almost ran into him as I got distracted by the enormous fire shooting out of a town house. The flames looked impossibly tall as they soared into the black sky, almost twice the size of the actual town house. Firemen were running in every direction; they all had their jobs and knew them well. I located Fio and ran over to him. The FDNY had given Fiorello an honorary fireman’s coat, which he was currently wearing.

  “Anyone in there?” I asked him, out of breath. I pretty much knew the answer already, since he didn’t look too solemn. Instead, Fio looked a bit like a seven-year-old watching his heroes go to work, his hands clasped behind his back, bobbing up and down on his toes.

  “No. They say that this was an abandoned house, which means it looks like arson. The bigger concerns are the homes on either side, but the people have all been evacuated. In fact, the neighbors came home late and saw the flames, so they started banging on the doors around them after they called in the fire department. Thankfully, it’s not a windy night, and they’ve been soaking the buildings next to them as well as putting out the main fire,” he said.

  Roarke came over and suggested we go across the street to stay out of the way. His investigative reporter spirit took over as he whipped out his notebook. He was scribbling furiously as we walked across the street. He’d been talking to a few people already, and I’m sure he wanted to take advantage of being on the scene. He spotted a friend of his and murmured a quick, “Be right back.”

  The flames were slowly dying down. While the heat had been intense even where I stood across the street, it started to feel cooler again. It was dark on this side of the street, the inhabitants not even opening their blinds a crack to peek out. That was odd . . . everyone enjoys a good gawking session. From the shadows behind me, I saw some of the darkness shift. The hairs on my neck and arms pricked. Even though it was warm out, I felt a chill. Someone is watching me.

  My stomach clenched and my breath quickened, my thoughts going directly to that man from the train station that morning. I suddenly rea
lized I was very alone; everyone’s attention was on the fire, and I happened to be in a very dark and shadowy place. In the city, that just was not smart.

  My aunt always told me I had an excellent sense of self-preservation: I moved. Fast. Just not fast enough.

  Someone caught my arm and twisted it hard. I tried to yell out, but a hand went over my mouth and pulled me farther into the shadows. My shoulder was on fire, roiling with the pain of being slowly wrenched out of the socket. My crazed thoughts raced, but as I struggled to get in control, I realized it was definitely not that slimy man with the nose hairs. This guy was shorter and very slim. I could see jet black hair in my peripheral vision, very slicked back and shiny. And when I looked down, he had on equally shiny black shoes. He jerked my head back against him, and his rough stubble from a five o’clock shadow raked against my face.

  A higher voice than I expected whispered in my ear, “You tell LaGuardia we don’t appreciate him poking his nose in our business. I’ve got a message for you to send him. Tell Fio we’ve got sumthin’ good planned for him. Something to shake up the city. And we’ve got a lot of help. He can’t . . . aw, shit.”

  Just as fast as he caught me, he let me go and backed away, having said “Aw, shit” with the disappointment of getting his carefully prepared message cut in half. Just as he rounded the corner, his suit coat opened, and I saw a glint of silver coming from his shoulder holster.

  I spotted Roarke coming back, the obvious impetus of the sleazy guy’s departure. The satisfied grin on Roarke’s face slowly melted into a frown as he got a better look at me.

  “My God, are you okay?” he asked, taking my shoulders between his hands.

  I started shaking. Damn it. Get it together. I’m a New Yorker, for crying out loud. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. There was a guy in the shadows who came up behind me and just about wrenched my arm out the socket,” I said, massaging my shoulder.

  “Did he say anything?” he asked as he carefully tucked my hair behind my ear, gently smoothing it back into place.