CHAPTER 17
I am always doing what I cannot do yet, in order to learn how to do it.
—ML
The next morning came all too quickly. If you could feel dark circles under your eyes, I could feel mine. Fiorello would be picking me up, but not coming in for breakfast, so it would be just Mr. Kirkland and me this morning. Aunt Evelyn would be returning from the Hamptons later in the day. I wore a summery, white, short-sleeved sweater over a brown linen skirt. Comfort was key today. I wore a cute little pair of sandals that were dark brown with white polka dots. They still had a heel, but not ungodly high. A woman has to make concessions.
I tapped down the stairs, my mind foggy as I tried to sort through the many emotions and factors of yesterday. I joined Mr. Kirkland in the kitchen. The pine table had a new yellow rose on it, and there were two place settings with steaming hot tea already there. That man was a godsend.
“Good morning, Mr. Kirkland. Ripley.” Mr. Kirkland muttered with a gravelly voice something akin to a good morning as he stood at the sink slicing strawberries. Ripley was next to him, leaning up against his legs. I sat down at the table with a hefty sigh and started dumping sugar and cream into my tea.
Something about my sigh made Mr. Kirkland turn around, knife and strawberry still in hand. “How was your night last night, Lane? I thought I might have heard a knock at the door at some point.” His gray hair touched the collar of his gray, short-sleeved shirt. His longer hair was very unfashionable for the time, but was so fitting for him. His large hands tenderly held the strawberry, but I could just as easily see them hoisting the lines on a huge sailing vessel. He wasn’t handsome, but he was definitely attractive, with a tanned and deeply lined face and light blue eyes . . . and he was completely unaware of his craggy good looks, which made him that much more interesting.
“Well, I have some news,” I began. “Peter came by to let us know that a body has been found. Danny Fazzalari.”
His eyes took a keen interest, but his expression didn’t alter a bit—serious, taking it all in, mulling it over. “And what does Finn have to say about that?”
I dropped my teaspoon into my cup, splashing the tea. “Pardon?”
“What does Finn have to say about that?” he repeated, intently looking at me.
“Why would Finn have something to say about that?”
He smiled. “Because, whenever there is bad news affecting you, my dear, Finn is sure to turn up.” Then he turned back around to his sink.
Honestly, this family of mine is obnoxiously omniscient.
“Well, funny you should say that,” I said, with a wry smile. “He did stop by last night.”
Mr. Kirkland barked out a laugh. “Ha! Bet Peter loved that!”
“Mm . . . Sure did,” I murmured. “Finn is tricky to figure out. He wasn’t too happy about Danny being killed. By the way, it was execution style, bullet to the forehead and a few more in the chest. Danny’s been our main suspect, and yet the style of the killing suggests someone quite powerful. Powerful enough not to be afraid of the repercussions of taking out Uncle Louie’s nephew. Plus, he was found naked.”
“Ooh. Lady killer.”
I nodded.
Mr. Kirkland said provocatively, “Hmm. I wonder how Uncle Louie feels about that.”
I hadn’t thought of that. If Uncle Louie was behind it, if Danny had done something to provoke his powerful uncle, then he’d obviously be fine about it. However, and that was a big, fat however, if someone else did it, Uncle Louie would be a terrifying enemy. We both silently mulled over the possibilities.
* * *
Fiorello and I drove to work. I filled him in on Peter’s news, but he had already heard. Neither of us talked about Finn. I was very tired, and the morning was a tough one to get through. I drank my share of coffee at the office. Lizzie wasn’t in today, but Roxy was. She had the same dark circles under her eyes that I had. In fact, she looked so regular, so much more approachable, that I actually tried to strike up a commiseration conversation with her in the coffee room.
Even with dark circles, she looked cute. Her shiny blond hair was beautifully styled, and her curvy shape was highlighted by a tight white skirt and tighter light pink, short-sleeved sweater. Oh, what I would have given for cleavage like that.
“Hey, Roxy, how are you? I am so tired today. This coffee better pack a punch.”
“Really, Lane? Do I need to come in and do your job for you again?” she said, with dripping sarcasm and contempt. That woke me up.
But I had learned from Val: Don’t take the bait. Do not take the bait. I stifled a yawn. “Whatever you say, Roxy. See ya later.”
Wasn’t worth the fight.
For lunch, Valerie and I decided on a nearby park that had dozens of café tables. We bought sandwiches, bags of chips, and a couple of Coca-Colas, and found a table. It was warm, but not humid for a change. Val had on a light blue dress, her golden brown hair in a matching headband.
“So, I ran into Peter this morning on the way in to work, and he told me he delivered some news last night.”
“He sure did,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich and getting settled. “That’s something, isn’t it? I can’t get over it. That slick, disturbing guy is gone.”
“It is crazy. But I want to talk about something else,” she said, quickly swiping away the darkness of Danny. “How was the walk home with Tucker last night?” Good heavens, Tucker seemed like a million years away.
“Why the blank face? It looked like you were really enjoying your time with him, Lane. And he’s a really nice guy.”
“Oh, we did have a good time together. He’s great.”
“Oh, no, not the he’s great comment,” she said. “What you really mean is, he’s a nice guy, but not for me. Lane, I know you have a thing for Finn, and I have to admit you had some really romantic times with him, but I also know you’ve been so lonely lately. When you were dancing with Tucker, that lonely look was gone. You looked happy.”
Her green eyes were so earnest. She always wanted the best for me. “I was happy, Val. We made plans for next week, a picnic in Central Park.”
“You did?” she exclaimed, with great delight. “So, you really did like him?”
I hesitated, not sure why I wasn’t being completely honest with her. Maybe I was questioning the same things about Finn and our relationship. But when I was with him . . . I made a mental note to send a message to Tucker that I couldn’t meet.
“Did he kiss you again? I saw him kiss you on the dance floor.” I blushed, giving myself away entirely.
“He did! And you liked it!” she practically yelled.
“Sssshhhhh! Val!” What have I done? But just then, all thoughts of Tucker and even Finn, for that matter, went flitting out of my mind like a dry leaf in the wind.
“Hello, ladies, would you mind if I joined you for a moment?” asked a very deep, commanding voice.
He took my breath away. I coughed, then plastered a formal smile onto my face, and said, “Of course. Have a seat, Mr. Venetti.”
In all his mobster glory—expensive, perfectly tailored, double-breasted black suit, black shirt and white tie, shiny black shoes, black fedora with a white feather in the band, and three bodyguards surrounding us—our guest for lunch was none other than Uncle Louie. He was in his late sixties with graying black hair slicked back, an old scar down the side of his face by his ear from someone’s knife, deep brownish-black eyes, and enormous gray and black eyebrows that looked like tremendous caterpillars. If you’ve never been around a gangster, I mean a real gangster, you’ve never understood raw power.
But in my job with Fiorello, a job that never failed to educate me, I had also learned that although they were ruthless killers, many gangsters appreciated three things: money and therefore good business, courage, and respect. However, there were also those who were incapable of appreciating anything. Full of a vacant sort of evil that had raped and pillaged their humanity, they had an irrational, ravenous look in
their eyes that meant they’d just as soon shoot you where you stood as listen. I took a good look at Mr. Venetti, assessing which camp he might lie in.
I didn’t see the crazy camp. I took one more moment, then looked him straight in the eye and said with great care, “Mr. Venetti, I’m very sorry for the loss of your nephew.”
He raised his massive eyebrows and pursed his lips as he looked deep into my eyes, doing his own assessment of my sincerity. One side of his mouth went up about a quarter of an inch, and I took that as a dramatically positive response.
“That, Lane, is what I’ve come to discuss. With Miss Pelton as well.” He nodded a greeting to a very wide-eyed and shell-shocked Val. “His demise came to my attention last night, but he’d been missing for a few days. I heard that he had caused you some harm lately, is that true?”
I simply nodded.
“Once I heard what he was involved in, I disapproved greatly and told him so. But whoever is controlling the situation had more of a grip on him than I thought.”
I asked, “You disapproved, sir?”
“I know what you’re thinking, Lane. I have to admit that having Fiorello, and you, out of the way would achieve some ease for me. But the bottom line? I am a businessman,” he said as he lit the end of his cigar. He gave three slow, intentional puffs, which gave me time to kick-start my heart again after his distressing words: you, out of the way. “And Danny’s tactics that pinpointed you—and I can only assume they were meant to try to persuade Fiorello to leave office—would not have improved business for me. Fiorello is bringing money back into the city. When the city has money, I have money. Despite the fact that he hates my slot machines, I have other things I can . . . focus on. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” I said, willing my voice not to shake. I cleared my throat. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, why come to me directly with this?”
“I didn’t always like my nephew’s . . . eh, shall we say, style?” His three goons chuckled. “But he is—was—my nephew, and no one touches”—puff, puff of the cigar—“my family.”
His eyes suddenly transformed into black, serpentine orbs. I rubbed the goose bumps that had popped out on my arms. I had no doubt he meant it, through and through. “Secondly, I don’t need the police attention, so I wanted to notify someone that neither I nor my organization is responsible for this. Lastly, I want your boss and his policemen to help figure out who did this. I think we would all benefit from finding out the ones in control here.”
He was powerful, all right. He wore a strong cologne, and every inch of him was covered in expensive fabrics made by top-notch designers. But it was more than that. His essence radiated his ruthlessness. Especially his face; his olive, Italian skin was etched with the lines of a sixty-five-year-old who had built his empire on the broken lives of others.
Yet . . . and yet . . . there was something that was magnetic about him. There was this weird kind of respect I had for him. I was fighting a battle within myself, between loathing him and liking him. How is that possible? Part of me hated him, and the other part hated myself for liking him.
“All right, Mr. Venetti, I will relay the message to Mr. LaGuardia.” He stood up and nodded to his guys, gesturing that he was ready to go.
“Thank you, Lane and Miss Pelton, for your time,” he said as he rose and tipped his hat to us.
“Ah, Mr. Venetti?” I asked, on a sudden hunch.
“Yes?” He turned back to us, surprised.
“Do you know of a Donagan Connell and Daley Joseph?”
“No. No, I don’t, Lane.” Puff, puff. “Good day.” He casually sauntered away, his hand elegantly placed in the pocket of his suit coat, the three bodyguards walking after him.
Valerie and I paused for a long time, watching them walk away down the park path. They were such an incongruous sight amid all the cheery lunchers in the park. I looked at Valerie. She looked at me. A long, awkward pause ensued.
“Uh . . . chip?” she asked, offering me a potato chip.
I cracked up. “Yeah, how exactly do you follow that?” She finally looked more like herself and less like a trapped animal. We both took a tentative bite of our sandwiches and tried to digest that outrageous conversation.
“One thing for sure,” said Val, “beyond a doubt, he knows Donagan Connell and Daley Joseph.”
CHAPTER 18
Your profession is not what brings home your weekly paycheck, your profession is what you’re put here on earth to do, with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.
—ML
As the summer progressed, I needed to buy a few new clothes with some of my money I had scrimped and saved. Of course, over the past several years, money was a lot tighter than it used to be. But I could afford a couple of new things here and there. We all got really good at being resourceful. I think artists are exceptional at this. Like Aunt Evelyn.
Sugar was at a premium, so Mr. Kirkland had been raising honeybees on our roof. He grew all sorts of vegetables and herbs, too. He harvested so much honey and so many vegetables, we were able to give out quite a bit through the neighborhood. For women, stockings were getting more and more rare. We’d even get hand-me-downs and re-darn the seams up the back to make them fit us. Sometimes in the summer, we would put pancake makeup on our legs and draw narrow lines up our calves to make it look like stockings.
The Depression had hit the city hard enough, but the rural and small towns of America were hit the hardest. That was another reason I loved my job. It felt satisfying to be able to help people in a concrete way, something that was worthwhile and purposeful.
Finn was true to his word; it was like he’d dropped off the face of the earth. I’d seen Tucker at a few dances over the last week. He didn’t seem put out at my note canceling our trip to the park, but he didn’t ask me to dance, either. One day I ran into him when I was doing some shopping on my lunch break.
“Hi, Tucker!” I said, honestly happy to see his easy smile. “How have you been?”
“Great, Lane, good to see you.” And it looked like he meant it. “How’s your job been going?”
I remembered the gist of my nice enough but abrupt note to him and felt a guilty blush creep into my face. “It’s been crazy as usual.” Which it definitely was. “But good; I love it.” And suddenly, I was dead tired. My arms and legs felt like a ton of bricks, and I yawned.
He laughed. “I guess it is crazy! You know, you might not have time for a picnic, but would you want to go to the Met for a glass of wine at the rooftop gardens?”
Anywhere but the Met; it reminded me too much of Finn. “Well, I’d like that. What would you think about trying The Boathouse? They just put in a small outdoor café by the rentals. Want to go after work?”
“Sure. That sounds great. How about I meet you in the lobby at your office at about six?”
“Six is perfect. See you then,” I said, and we both went our separate ways.
He met me at city hall, and we made our way uptown, making small talk that was cheering and comfortable. He really was easy to be around. We talked about the new Hollywood musical Show Boat and the latest songs by Bing Crosby, Billie Holiday, and Fred Astaire.
We got up to 79th and Fifth Avenue and walked into Central Park by Cedar Hill. Everything was verdant and smelled so good. We started meandering along on the paths that led to The Boathouse. We passed through the quaint little Glade Arch and then saw several ducks at the duck pond. Then The Boathouse came into view. It was a favorite place for New Yorkers to come and enjoy the pond and the sight of the rowers rowing their boats languidly along. The café was outside just off the rental area, and we sat down on the tall stools.
I’m not sure why people find rowing romantic. Rowing is hard and frustrating. I couldn’t row a boat in a straight line to save my life. I started to tell Tucker some of my thoughts on the matter.
“. . . to save my life. Then you’re stuck on a pond with lots of other onlookers. The
re’s no room for a private, cozy chat. There’s the constant danger of falling out of the boat, then the matter of possibly knocking the other boaters with your oar. . . .” At this point, he was cracking up.
“I see you’ve given this some thorough thought, Lane.”
“Yes, yes I have.” I took another sip of wine. The cold sauvignon blanc tasting of icy grapefruit was delicious.
“And what are your thoughts about the gondoliers who sing to you?” he asked, with a mischievous look.
“I’m not sure I get the hats.” He laughed harder.
“And the singing. Why is a total stranger singing to you while holding a really long pole in an impossibly narrow boat something that makes you want to fall in love?”
We were wiping tears away from our eyes. “Well, Lane? You’ve made an excellent case, and now we are going to test that case if it kills us. Let’s go. Get up!”
“What?”
“You heard me. We are getting a boat.” He took me by the hand and practically dragged me over to the boat rental shack.
“Aw, do we have to?” I whined, sounding like a sulky teenager.
“We sure do,” he said, with a glint in his eye and a great big smile.
My dark pink dress with pleated skirt and matching little hat wasn’t the typical sailing outfit, but I was game for just about anything. He was first into our questionable vessel. I didn’t like the look of the rocking he was causing. I stepped in with the help of the rental guy. The boat rocked violently with my step, and I sputtered, “Whoa!” as I got my balance and sat down too quickly, smacking my butt hard on the bench.
Tucker was smiling with a See? Isn’t this fun? look on his face. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and took the oars. His strong shoulders had no problem with the oars. I hated oars. They never did what I wanted: They slip, they fight you, one little tiny inch off and you’re going cockeyed, grumble, grumble, grumble.
We got out to the middle of the pond and then stopped, bobbing in the green water. A couple of swans were swimming along as gracefully as only swans can do. You could hear chatting and laughing from the other boaters floating across the water. Only one gondola was out, and the gondolier was making his way closer to us. I could hear him singing an Italian love song.
The Silver Gun Page 16
