The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  “Yeah, you know, something you could do together.”

  “Oh, right! Well, it was worth a try. Thanks, Ralph. I appreciate it.”

  “You know, it’s funny you asked me about them.”

  “It is?” I said, with something akin to a dire foreboding.

  “Roxy just asked me about you last week. Then Lizzie asked a couple of questions about Valerie. Maybe you guys will be friends after all!” he chirped, with genuine hopefulness, as he took his coffee and turned to the door.

  “Yeah,” I said rather sickly, “that’d be gr—” And he was off and running out the door.

  Just then, across the office, I saw Roarke come in, looking avidly around. He nodded at me to follow him. As we drew away from the main cluster of desks, he said in a low voice, “I heard from my pal in the police department that they found conclusive evidence that the fire where you first met”—he mouthed Danny—“was definitely arson.”

  “Well, that’s not that big of a surprise,” I whispered.

  “That’s what I thought, until the guy says to me that they can actually link the fire to Danny.”

  “You mean really link him? As in handcuffs and arrests?” I asked.

  He saw the hope written on my face and was slightly crestfallen as he said, “Well, no, they know that it was him, but the proof is a bit circumstantial. Not enough to make an arrest. But it gets more interesting, Lane.” He looked back over his shoulder at the door between the coffee room and offices. He whispered, “They also found something else at the fire.” He paused, building my anticipation. “They found a woman’s scarf, and there’s one corner of it not scorched. It’s bright yellow.”

  “Roxy’s?” I whispered. “Wait a minute, does she have a connection to Danny?”

  He nodded, as he could see I was getting the picture. “My guy said that they’ve had suspicions that there was a mole of sorts in the mayor’s office, and they narrowed it down to one of the women in Fio’s secretary pool. Nothing big, but you know, people hearing things before it’s officially declared from city hall, etc.”

  “Well . . . she could be a mole, but Roarke, what if she’s more than that? What if she’s Danny’s lover?” He’d been thinking business angles, not personal angles.

  His brows shot up in surprise. He nodded and smiled, bringing out his dimples. “Oh, yeah, that could definitely be the case, Lane.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It is with the reading of books the same as with looking at pictures; one must without doubt, without hesitations, with assurance, admire what is beautiful.

  —ML

  By the afternoon the rain had stopped, having thoroughly washed the city clean. The sun was peeking out, casting great shafts of golden light through watery clouds. I left work by way of the bus uptown. It smelled so good outside; I really wanted a quick walk in Central Park to think and enjoy the clean, summery scents.

  It was a typical, crowded bus. I had a seat by the window, and an elderly woman next to me rattled a box of mints in her purse. I was currently reading a new novel, Gone with the Wind, but the book was enormous and completely impractical to bring to work. So today I pulled out The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Thinking of these books and Aunt Evelyn, I planned to read more of her lavender journal from the mysterious ML.

  At 60th, the lady next to me got up to leave and someone else took her place.

  “Hi, Finn,” I said, not looking up from my book.

  “How . . . But . . .” he stuttered.

  “I spotted you at 42nd.”

  He looked to the front of the bus and nodded forward, like I should do the same. That was rather ominous. I followed his lead and stared out front.

  Hardly moving his mouth, in a small voice, he said, “You’re being followed.” I swallowed and nodded slightly. He said, “Follow me.”

  I did some quick calculations of my situation. I had met a lot of unsavory characters recently, but Finn? If he’d wanted to hurt me, he could have already done so several times. Fio knew him and had some sort of relationship with him. That was good enough for me. For now. And on top of that, visions of the man on the subway with the nose hairs swam into my mind at that precise moment. Yeah, I’d take Finn.

  At the next stop, we both got up slowly to move toward the front of the bus, making it look nonchalant as we gave our seats to a young mom with a baby. As the bus pulled up to 79th, a popular stop, we stepped aside to let out dozens of people and let on dozens of people, and just as the driver was about to close the doors, we quickly squeezed out. The doors shut firmly behind us, and the bus took off with cars honking, urging it on its ponderous way in the rush-hour traffic.

  I was pretty sure we had ditched whoever was following me, but just in case, I didn’t want to go home; I felt like public, busy places were better. I turned toward Central Park and the Met.

  I walked up the famous, wide steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where many tourists and New Yorkers paused and rested or met up with friends. I walked right in after looking back out of the corner of my eye to see if Finn was still with me. He was. I saw a minuscule smile pull at one side of his mouth as he shook his head.

  Once in the main entry hall, I walked toward the section with ancient Roman statues. I circled around several large pieces, and after tailing me for a bit, Finn made his way over.

  “Do you like this piece?” he asked me, sounding like any other British stranger who wanted to share in another’s artistic experience.

  “I have no idea,” I said. He laughed. When Finn laughed, his smile was completely genuine, not affected or self-conscious. It felt like liquid gold running through me, a contagious happiness.

  I smiled and looked again at the marble statue of a youth who was on that engrossing cusp between childhood and manhood. It astounded me that such a hard, cold material could be sculpted with such soft smoothness; the curls atop his head were perfect and intricate. “I like looking at the sculptures, but I really just like this area of the museum. Ancient art that still speaks, the cool feeling of the air, and the fantastic high ceilings.”

  We walked through several other parts of the museum, not talking much, but enjoying being side by side, looking at beautiful things. Occasionally, our arms would press up against each other as we stood side by side, making my spine sizzle.

  We strolled up the main staircase and stood at the railing overlooking the entryway of the Met. I felt Finn draw close, and I looked up at him slowly, my heart throbbing. He put his arm up over me on a column, and he leaned his head down toward mine. His eyes were dark, and I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to kiss me. But with a few quick blinks, he cleared his head.

  “Lane,” he said, in his deep and slightly whispery voice that held that British accent that was so tantalizing. Or was it Irish? “You were being followed by someone who is linked with Danny Fazzalari. I’m fairly certain you know who he is and who he’s linked to?”

  “I know who they are,” I said, my voice hardly above a whisper.

  “I can’t . . . I’m not supposed . . .” He leaned down a fraction of an inch closer. “Look, there are even more players in this than you know about,” he whispered intensely, his eyes trying to tell me more than he really could.

  “Finn, what . . .” But before I could get my question out, he gingerly put out his hand, and with one gentle motion, stroked my hair, his right hand sliding down my face and letting the strands slip out of his grasp. It was excruciating and heavenly at the same time. He looked at me, both of us with so many questions behind our eyes. But he said only, “You have to go, love. We can’t be seen together. Too often.” He smiled a one-sided, crooked smile.

  I whispered, “When we were dancing in Little Italy and you left, why did you say you were sorry?” But he stopped my words, cupping my jaw with his right hand, his thumb gently covering my lips.

  “Oh, no you don’t, Lane. Not that question.” Then, as he started to back away, he smiled a devilish smile that simultaneously ma
de my heart melt and brought my hands to my hips.

  “Oh, yeah, Mister. That question,” I said, in mock indignation.

  But he backed away farther toward the stairway and smiled a real smile, one I found extremely appealing. From my roost up on the landing, both hands on the railing, I watched him walk through the lobby down below and out of the building, trotting quickly down the steps outside.

  I had a lot of questions. I was being followed by someone linked to Danny. So, was Roxy or one of Danny’s guys following me now? And was Roxy too obvious of a villain? In novels, it was the least suspected person. So what the hell did that mean? Ralph? Lizzie? Val, for cryin’ out loud? And I didn’t want to think about this, but Finn was following me, too. Why? I had to consider all the possibilities. But I knew one thing for sure from experience: You could not survive distrusting everyone. You had to make leaps of faith sometimes.

  Finn knew that I understood about the gangsters’ involvement, so his comment about the fact that there were more players meant that I needed to worry about the gangsters plus others. Great. The only other big player that could compete with the gangsters was Tammany. I had to talk with Roarke about any other thoughts or leads involving them. I needed to call him and get him to come over for a little chat.

  * * *

  Roarke was able to stop by after dinner, and I decided that I wanted Aunt Evelyn in on the discussion; two birds with one stone, so to speak. So we gathered at the pine kitchen table and I set out a snack for us all. I chose vanilla ice cream and my absolute favorite: Sanders hot fudge poured liberally over the top. It was a Michigan thing. Great candy company and great name; I had always wished it would be discovered that I was a long-lost heir to the Sanders legacy. I wasn’t really a sundae fan, but Sanders hot fudge? It was more delightful than you could possibly imagine. Roarke had two helpings of the thick, smooth, caramely fudge while Aunt Evelyn and I finished up our own. Mr. Kirkland sat down at last, and I decided to dive right into the meeting I had called.

  “I have a friend who is very connected and who knows all about our case, all the incidents that have been happening lately. He knows that some of the events are linked to Danny Fazzalari and Uncle Louie.” Mr. Kirkland flinched at Uncle Louie’s name and muttered something indescribable. Aunt Evelyn’s eyes narrowed keenly.

  Roarke’s shoulders were braced, like he had his guard up, anticipating what I could possibly be leading to. “Okay. Your contact is up to speed,” he said, urging me on to my point.

  “Well, today he said something that I need your opinion on. He said that there are even more players involved than we know about.”

  “Others?” exclaimed Roarke. Then, under his breath, he said, “As if Louie wasn’t enough.”

  “Mm hm,” I said, scraping the bottom of my bowl, waiting to see where their line of thinking would take them.

  “I’ve got a thought, Lane,” said Aunt Evelyn, with her arms crossed and leaning on the table. “I was talking with Ellie last week, and she and I have come up with a couple of people we should take a look at.”

  “You briefly mentioned her last week. Which Ellie is this, Aunt Evelyn? Do I know her?” I asked.

  Roarke dropped his spoon in a surprised clatter. “Eleanor?” he exclaimed. Mr. Kirkland chuckled. “Not . . . You mean the first lady? Eleanor Roosevelt?”

  I whipped my head toward Aunt Evelyn. “What? All this time I thought Ellie was some little old lady from the art gallery meetings.”

  Aunt Evelyn tut-tutted and made sounds like, Don’t be ridiculous. “Eleanor and I have been dear friends for ages; I’ve always called her Ellie. I brought her up to speed on some of this, and of course you know she and Fiorello are very close, so it was only natural. After talking through quite a list of people and discarding the ones in jail or dead or without the wherewithal to pull something like this off, she and I think that there are two men who are worthy of looking into from Jimmy Walker’s old Tammany crew. They were disgusted by Fiorello’s new direction and could still be compelled to take vengeance on him. Donagan Connell and Daley Joseph.”

  “Okay,” said Roarke, ready to get down to the business of investigative reporting. “What makes them stand out, Ms. Thorne? I thought Donagan was in prison, and Daley Joseph, well, wasn’t that maniac institutionalized when they found out what he did to those two . . . eh . . . fallen women?”

  “Prostitutes, Roarke. Hookers. Say it like it is,” said Aunt Evelyn. Roarke choked on something, and she absentmindedly patted him on the back. “What makes these two suspicious is that they seem to have disappeared, whereas most of Jimmy’s other crew are still in prison, have moved away, or have decided to try to make it work with the new administration.

  “Those two were particularly vicious and absolutely devoted to Jimmy, but even more devoted to their self-promotion. We should at least find out where they’ve been hiding to rule them out.”

  I looked at Roarke. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do some digging around. See what I can come up with,” he said, taking copious notes on his notepad. I noticed Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn looking at each other and him nodding to her.

  I said, smirking a little, “Do you two have something to share?”

  Aunt Evelyn’s head whipped around to me rather guiltily. “No. Nothing. Mr. Kirkland and I have just been discussing this, so he knows about all of it. Would anyone like a little more ice cream?” She was blabbering, unsuccessfully trying to cover up something. I looked at Roarke, and we shared the exact same expression: a disbelieving cocked eyebrow. He looked at me, and we both shrugged at the same time.

  “Sure! I’ll have more, Aunt Evelyn,” I said, pushing my empty bowl toward her.

  “Me, too,” said Roarke. “Say, Lane, since we’re not getting things out on the table . . .” Mr. Kirkland coughed, or was it a laugh? “How about telling us who your contact is?”

  Damn, I thought I’d maneuvered away from that topic. As Evelyn handed me my second helping, I quickly put a huge spoonful of ice cream in my mouth to give me a few extra seconds to think. Aunt Evelyn stared me down, fully engaged.

  “Uhhh . . .” I began.

  “Let me guess,” said irritating Roarke. “Is it the serious, intriguing man you danced with at Copioli’s?”

  I put my face in my hands and muttered, “Oh, bugger.”

  Aunt Evelyn perked up further and said with great interest, “Copioli’s? Intriguing man?”

  I gave Roarke a withering look, and he beamed even more broadly. If he’d been seated closer to me, I would have kicked his shins under the table. “Well, actually, yes.”

  Grinning and looking like a complacent, self-satisfied cat, Roarke said, “I thought so.” He licked the last bit of hot fudge off his spoon in triumph.

  “Grrrrr,” I said. Mr. Kirkland chuckled.

  “So, out with it, Lane,” said Aunt Evelyn.

  “All right. I don’t know much about him. But I saw him the day I was pushed onto the tracks; he actually helped me over to a bench.” That sobered everyone up quickly. “His name is Finn Brodie, and I ran into him on the bus today. He told me that someone whom he knew to be connected to Danny Fazzalari had been following me, and he helped me get off the bus and lose him. That was when he told me about the fact that there are more players than I know about.”

  Mr. Kirkland wasn’t chuckling anymore. He put his elbows on the table and asked, “Do you trust him, Lane?”

  I took a moment to gather myself. I thought about our all-too-few moments together: our dance, our walk through the Met, his eyes, his smile. “I do, Mr. Kirkland. He’s a mystery, but I think he’s on the right side. The first time I saw him, he was coming out of Fio’s office.” That raised three sets of eyebrows. “Fio says he’s working with him on a special project. But other than that, Fio’s been avoiding my questions about him, which makes me even more curious, of course.”

  “Hmph!” exclaimed an indignant Aunt Evelyn. “We’ll just see about that!” Poor Fio.

  Jus
t then Ripley came over to the table. He’d been patiently waiting on his rug by the door, and he finally couldn’t take it anymore. He skulked over to us and suddenly grabbed the bottle of fudge in his large mouth and skittered away in a clatter of paws on the wood floor.

  “Ripley!” yelled Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn simultaneously as they both ran from the table.

  I looked at Roarke. “Meeting adjourned!” I said as I happily finished the last drops of my sundae.

  * * *

  The next morning, I was up in my room getting ready for work when I heard Fio come crashing through the door, screeching, “Good morning!” I quickly zipped up the back of my sleeveless light pink dress. I put on my little white bolero jacket and swirled on a coat of pink lipstick. I heard voices coming from downstairs and just knew that the trap Aunt Evelyn had set for Fio would be profound and impossible from which to extricate himself. I didn’t want to miss one second of the show.

  I made my way to the table, which was laden with two big platters of scrambled eggs and biscuits. Aunt Evelyn had just invited Fio to sit down and was watching him like a cat watches a mouse just about to enter its ambush. “So, Fiorello, dear, how is your breakfast?”

  “Wonderful, Evelyn, tell Mr. Kirkland thank you very much.”

  “I was wondering, Fio, what can you tell me about a man you’re working with named Finn Brodie?” Fio froze his fork midway between the plate and his mouth.

  He slowly raised only his eyes to Aunt Evelyn and said meaningfully, with a touch of menace, “What did you just say?” Perhaps the man did have chance.

  My eyes switched to Aunt Evelyn to see how she’d maneuver. Her eyes squinted in a strategic, calculating glare.

  “Finn Brodie, Fiorello. We would like to know more about him. We”—she looked pointedly at me, and I tried to sustain an innocent look on my face—“all have a vested interest in him. Is there anything you can tell us about him?”

  Fio looked around at me, Aunt Evelyn, and finally, Mr. Kirkland, who joined us and was grinning while he drank his hot coffee. Fio swallowed, dabbed his lips with his napkin, and chuckled.