The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  Roarke appeared out of nowhere and perched on my desk. “Hey, Lane. Do you think you can leave a little early today? I have something I want to run by you, and I found this great new place down on the water. Want to go get a drink?”

  The idea was more than tempting. I could hardly focus on my work at hand, it was so hot, and Fio had left early to have a meeting about the new Randall’s Island sports complex that was opening soon. I’d been working plenty of overtime to balance out leaving early.

  “Done! Let’s get out of here.” I grabbed my bag, and we practically skipped out the door, relieved to get into the comparatively cool air outside. At least the air was moving.

  We sat at a little round table covered in blue mosaic tiles. I ordered a Floradora: gin, framboise, ginger ale, and lime. Roarke thought that was an excellent idea and ordered the same, and we shared crab cakes. We were close to the fish market, so the seafood was fresh and delicious, not to mention pretty cheap.

  “This is absolutely beautiful, Roarke. Great idea. You can coax me to leave work early any time,” I said, with a smack of my lips as I popped the last bit of crab into my mouth.

  He chuckled and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. The sun glinted brightly off his blond hair. With his golden brown eyes and tanned skin, he looked the epitome of summer. Behind him, the river was strewn with millions of bright sparks of sunshine. I could hear a little band playing on the streets below, something with a cheerful, island flair.

  Laying his napkin aside contentedly, Roarke took one last swig of his drink and looked me squarely in the eyes. “Lane. I have something I want to talk to you about. I want your thoughts.”

  I also took one last drink as our plates were cleared from the table. I nodded and said, “All right, Roarke. Shoot.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned in toward me. “I’ve been talking with a buddy in the NYPD. I got a copy of the sketch from the police artist of the man you described, the man who threatened you and Fio on the night of that fire. The same man who pushed you onto the tracks.”

  “You . . . What? I didn’t tell you it was the same—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I figured that out all by myself. Remember? Investigative reporter?”

  “I should have known better,” I said, with a droll look on my face and a long, resigned exhale. “So? What’s the scoop? What have you discovered?”

  He took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles mindlessly, and said, “I know who he is.” And who he was could not be good, judging by the look on Roarke’s sober face.

  “Out with it.”

  He leaned in and brought his voice down to a low whisper. “He’s Danny Fazzalari. More importantly, he’s the hired gun and nephew of a mob boss. Well, the mob boss. Louie Venetti.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore.

  —ML

  My blood drained right to my toes, and a prickly sweat broke out on my temples that had nothing to do with the heat.

  “Louie Venetti,” I whispered, with a squeak. I cleared my throat. “Better known as Uncle Louie? One of the most notorious gangsters in New York, who earned tens of millions from the slot machines in the grocery stores that Fiorello has been taking down? That Louie Venetti?”

  “Yes.” He looked around and ordered us another round of drinks, this time something more medicinal.

  “What do you think that means, Roarke?” I asked, my mind running a mile a minute.

  “I’ve got some theories, but I’d like to hear anything that comes to your mind about why you’ve been a target.”

  “Well, it would be obvious that . . .” I cleared my throat again and lowered my voice even further. “It’s clear that Louie would have a major grudge against Fio, and I’m an easier target than he is. And I’m someone he cares about. Fio’s made that known to enough people.”

  “Yes. ‘Grudge.’ That’s an understatement,” said Roarke.

  “And he certainly got a message across to Fio. But then again, it’s been quiet for a bit. Has Fio stopped something or begun a new phase of one of his projects that would take the heat off Louie and make him think he got the message loud and clear?” I asked, processing out loud.

  “Huh, that’s a good point. Something has definitely changed, since there were two attacks close together, whereas it’s been quiet for a few weeks. Definitely something to consider. It could be as incidental as the whole swimming pool mania. Fio’s been running around opening one pool after another, not to mention the park openings and Randall’s Island coming up. He hasn’t had time to pound any slot machines with his sledgehammer,” he said while stroking his chin in concentration.

  Just then a barge drifted by and blew its horn. I jumped a mile and nearly knocked over my drink.

  “Whoa! A little jumpy, are we, Lane?” said Roarke while straightening the things I’d knocked askew.

  I gave him a dirty look.

  “Anyway,” he continued, oblivious to risk and danger. My risk and danger. “I’ve got an informant who has something that I think you and I can check out. He says he’s been running errands for Venetti’s gang and he overhears things, see? So, he owes me big time for something I helped him with, and he told me that something is going down today in the Meatpacking District.” I groaned. “They’re having some kind of meeting, and we might find it interesting.”

  “Are you out of your mind? The Meatpacking District? And who exactly are they, and what is the it that we might find interesting?” I asked, with exasperation. Patience was not my strong suit, and all these unidentifiable pronouns were about to drive me to jump into the river.

  “It’s not a meeting with Louie or anything, but I think with Danny Fazzalari.”

  “So, we’re supposed to overhear some dubious conversation and then what? Call the police and tell them . . . what?” I could not see the logic.

  “Well, I don’t know, but my informant is supposed to be there as well, and he often carries messages to and from these guys. So, if they’re having a meeting and we can identify the participants, or if we’re even luckier and overhear part of the conversation, and then on top of that, if we can get a copy of the message . . . it might really help us get a lead on this case.” Those were a lot of ifs.

  “Aha!” I said, nice and loud. Now it was his turn to jump out of his seat. “You said case. Fio thought I was being overdramatic calling it a case, but it is,” I said triumphantly.

  And with that revelation, my bad attitude about the whole thing capitulated. I’d be damned if I was going to let some scumbag tinker with my life and make me fearful of the shadows. No way was I going to just sit around and do nothing about it.

  “I think you’re right. We can do it, Roarke.”

  Roarke gave me a big, sly, approving smile. “That’s my girl.”

  “Let’s not rush in without thinking it through, but let’s do it!” And I slammed down my glass in determination.

  * * *

  “Roarke, I think we rushed in without thinking this through,” I said in a whisper as we drew near the slimy building in the Meatpacking District, which, by the way, carried all the odors, images, and carnage that the name implied. I’d never been over here before, and I slipped my hand into Roarke’s as we slunk down a close alley toward our meeting place he’d set in advance with his informant.

  My heart about stopped when we heard a loud crack echo through the tight alley. It could have been a window opening, breaking the seal. We both stood stock still as we strained our ears. After several long moments, we took one more tenuous step and stood sandwiched together between two brick walls with refuse and liquid things I didn’t want to think about swirling around our feet.

  The window that we had come close to was high, but Roarke would just about be able to see in if he stood on tiptoe. It was open; maybe the informant had cracked it so we could overh
ear what was going on inside. All I could hear at first were muffled voices. Then Roarke’s hand tightened on mine as we heard the determined, clipped steps of someone’s shoes making their way across a tile floor, closer and closer to the window we were directly under.

  This part here further suggested that perhaps we hadn’t thought this through. We were dead-ended in an alley, tightly hedged in on all sides but the one we came in on. The window we were eavesdropping through was over our heads, but if someone were to check the window and even just slightly tilt his head down, he would most definitely see us.

  Roarke whispered closely, “My informant figures we’ll be quite safe, since who would bother to look out the window?”

  Suddenly, we heard something shift above us. Someone was bothering. Right this second. We ducked down in the narrow alley. I huddled up to the brick wall, willing myself to be invisible like you do in a bad dream. I held my breath as someone wrenched the window further open. Then came the reassuring sound of someone’s steps walking away.

  We both slowly looked up. Low voices drifted out. I could only make out every third or fourth word. Then the voices raised, and so did the hairs on my neck as I heard my name.

  “What do you mean Lane knows? Knows what?” said a very angry, high-pitched male voice that I knew in an instant was Danny’s. The guy who tried to kill me.

  “Well, I’m not sure, I’m just the messenger. I’m just giving you the note. Sh—” said a nasally, fearful voice that must have been the informant’s. But something or someone had cut off what he was going to say next. Was he about to say she or someone’s name that began with S-H?

  Then a couple of steps sounded, and a third voice addressed Danny in a low murmur. Just then, Roarke spied something in the window, a small piece of white paper. He slowly raised his hand and took down the paper, using careful, delicate movements. He brought it down as the voice was still murmuring. He opened the paper so both of us could read it. Written on it in sloppy writing was one word: RUN.

  Roarke and I locked eyes at the same moment we heard loud footsteps decidedly coming toward our window. In one fluid movement, I turned around and we ran down the alley toward the light. Puddles splashed, things skittered in front of me. I ran like hell. I could hear Roarke behind me, right behind me. Before we reached the end of the alley, a gun fired.

  We were rocked in our shoes for one horrifying second. We realized it came from inside the room and we weren’t hit; we kept running. We swerved around the corner to the right. There were workers all over the place, but we stood out like an ink stain on a white shirt. With me in my bright yellow dress and Roarke in his navy pinstriped suit with white shoes, neither of us was exactly blending in.

  We bounded up the street, trying to stay close to other buildings. Just as we thought we might be clear, we saw them: two guys who had gangster written all over them. One was Danny. As I turned my head to look back at him, I saw him smile that awful smirk, and the sun shone off the deep shine of his black, slicked-back hair. They started chasing after us.

  “Roarke, run!” I yelled.

  I had an idea. I ran ahead and took a left going north toward the docks on the west side, Roarke running right after me. I never ran so fast in my life. My sides hurt, my legs burned. But when you’re literally running for your life, those are very minor inconveniences.

  I heard the clack of our pursuers’ shoes on the pavement, urging me to keep going. Neither of them yelled; they just ran relentlessly on after us. Come on, come on, where are you? Ah, there! When I saw my target, I got a final burst of speed. I heard a funny grunt of a laugh as Roarke figured out my plan.

  Just ahead was a bevy of at least twenty navy sailors making their way off their ship in port, heading out for some fun for the evening. I ran right toward the biggest guy, waved enthusiastically, and launched myself right into his surprised but receptive arms. I looked back at my shocked pursuers, turned to the stunned sailor, and planted a gigantic kiss right on his lips. He responded with vigor, and it had the reaction from his mates that I’d hoped: They all cheered. I could hear Roarke laughing behind me.

  The sailor let me go and set me down carefully. I brushed my hair back, and I said as loudly as I could, “Ah, well. Welcome to New York!” They all cheered again, and we all walked happily toward Broadway. Roarke and I were careful to stay in the middle of the group of laughing, shoving, playful sailors.

  About twenty feet away, I spotted Danny and his partner. They had steered clear of the sailors. He was not smiling now. Danny touched his hat in a sort of salute to my efforts, but then slowly raised his hand in a small gesture of a gun, shooting at me. He softly blew the imaginary smoke off his fingers; an unimaginative gesture, but frightening nonetheless. Then he readjusted his hat, did an about-face, and walked away.

  Up at Broadway, Roarke and I said farewell to the sailors and wished them a fantastic night of fun, then hailed a cab uptown. Inside the car, my heartbeat started to get back to normal, and I rubbed the back of my neck, easing the tension. “Roarke, do you think they killed your informant?”

  He’d obviously been thinking along the same lines. He held his fist pensively against his lips and was slowly shaking his head. “God, Lane, it’s my fault.”

  “No, he was in this with or without you, Roarke. He was already mixed up with those people.” I told the driver 80th between Lexington and Park Avenue. I figured a drink at my place would be safe and a good idea all the way around.

  Our ride took a while in the rush-hour traffic, but the drive turned out to be cathartic. As we pulled up to our brownstone, Roarke had started to relax a little. We got out and made our way up the steps toward the front door. Just as we got to the top, Mr. Kirkland swung it open with Ripley by his side.

  Roarke let out an involuntary, “Whoa! He’s getting big!” to Mr. Kirkland’s delight.

  Ripley had most definitely gotten bigger. Those paws of his were still a bit large for his body, though, so I knew he’d grow even more. The dog was impressive in stature, color, and intelligence. And at any sign of a possible threat to us (postman, milkman, anyone who dared to knock on our door), he took a powerful stance, and one look told you he meant business. But Ripley was also affectionate. There were many times when I’d be helping wash dishes at the sink, and he’d come up behind me and lie down against my heels. Right now, I could tell he had his guard up. But when he saw me, and he obviously remembered Roarke, he let his tongue loll out of his mouth and gave an affectionate woof.

  Roarke and I sank onto the couch in the parlor, utterly spent.

  “Well? So, where are we exactly with this fabulous lead of ours?” I asked.

  “First, I have to call my buddy at the NYPD and tell him about the shot fired. Find out if anyone was really hurt or if it was meant to scare us off. What else did we find out?” he asked me, like a professor asking his student.

  “Well, someone told your informant to give that particular message to Danny. And, by the way, that most definitely was Danny. Did your guy ever tell you who he was working with—the person who sent the message?”

  “No. Besides, I’m positive he didn’t know who was who, just that we might be interested. Probably heard your name come up, and he knew that you and I are friends. Figured we’d be plenty interested at that. And he was cut off just as he was about to say something else. He might have been about to say she.”

  I nodded vigorously. “I know. I thought the same thing. It could be a woman he was working with. Or he might have been about to say a number of other things. But whatever it means, they think I know something. Maybe it looks like I might know who this other person or boss is? The main thing that we’ve discovered lately is that my assailant from the shadows and from the subway is Danny, and he has powerful links to the gangster world, Uncle Louie in particular. But that means I was some sort of target even before today.”

  “It all depends on who my informant was working for. There are so many things going on here. Maybe someone who sees the
whole picture realized we learned a vital clue. It just doesn’t mean anything to us yet.”

  “And it can’t be the silver gun; Danny has it.”

  “What silver gun?” Damn.

  There was something ugly and menacing about the gun that kept haunting my dreams. I wanted to keep it a secret. The more I talked about it, the more it gave the nightmare credence. Too late now. I begrudgingly filled him in on the gun.

  “So, okay, what have we learned?” I asked as Roarke stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Oh, we’ve learned quite a lot,” he said, with an intense flash of his golden eyes. “These people are against you knowing what you know, they are willing to kill, and they are more concerned about you than about giving themselves away. It’d be smarter to just leave you alone if their main aim is a political move against Fiorello. But for some reason, Lane, you are right in the middle of it all.”

  CHAPTER 8

  What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?

  —ML

  Roarke notified the police about the gunshot. However, they went to the building in the Meatpacking District and didn’t find anything out of place. Roarke hadn’t heard from his informant since. It was possible it was just a scare tactic against him or us, but deep down, we believed the worst.

  Soon after the Meatpacking District debacle, Valerie and I had lunch at our favorite diner. She was telling me all about her latest date with Peter and how her clumsy side had come out as she’d tripped on the sidewalk and kicked her shoe twenty feet down the street.

  Her laughter was even better than the story. She always got me laughing, and I sighed happily as I took a sip of Coke. I hated to break the light moment, but after I took a couple of bites of my sandwich, I told her about what Roarke and I learned during our escapade. I left out some of the more lurid details of our adventure.